


Star Wolves: The Alpha Pack Strikes Back

by elizaham8957



Series: Star Wolves [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Star Wars Setting, Angst, F/M, Fluff, get ready for mutual pining and angry declarations of love, hahaha you know how the trip to Bespin is maybe five minutes in the movie, the star wars au continues, there are multiple beds but Stydia still end up in the same one, well buckle up because it's 18k in this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-01-16 07:16:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 60,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12338040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizaham8957/pseuds/elizaham8957
Summary: It is a dark time for the Rebellion. Although the Death Star has been destroyed, Imperial troops have driven the Rebel forces from their hidden base and pursued them across the galaxy.Evading the dreaded Imperial Starfleet, a group of freedom fighters led by Scott Skywalker has established a new secret base on the remote ice world of Hoth.The evil lord Darth Vader, obsessed with finding young Skywalker, has dispatched thousands of remote probes into the far reaches of space...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ALRIGHT! I have been so excited to start posting this story, because ESB is arguably my favorite Star Wars movie. The amount of stydia content in this outweighs the plot by a LOT. I'm not even sorry, okay. 
> 
> A huge thanks to my sister magicath17 for helping me figure out how this story really needed to go during our three hour walk on the beach. I would have never been able to figure it out without you, man. #beachwalkfictalk for the win, amirite? Big thanks to Allison im2old4thisotp too for beta-ing this, helping me keep these guys in character, and trimming down my ridiculous amounts of em dashes. You're both the absolute best!! 
> 
> I hope you like this, and I would love to hear what you think! I'm really excited to share this story with you. I'm stilesssolo on tumblr and twitter if you ever want to chat (or if you want to see the RIDICULOUSLY bad edit that I made for this. One day I'll learn to use Photoshop, I promise.) 
> 
> Thanks for reading! :)

Stiles was so  _ beyond _ sick of the cold. 

In the three years that had passed since Scott had blown up the Death Star, the rebels had moved bases more times than Stiles could count, always on the run from Imperials. They'd been on Hoth the longest— and he could see why, clearly. No one would ever send a scout out here, because there was nothing on this sith-forsaken planet but  _ snow.   _

Stiles shuddered against the harsh, icy wind, clutching the reins of his tauntaun tightly in his gloved hand. Once the wind had subsided, he tugged his face coverings down, the cold air biting his exposed skin. He brought his old commlink up to his face, hitting the power button, and the large, boxy machine buzzed to life. The weather on Hoth was so cold that most of their new, more sophisticated commlinks wouldn't work in the weather, so they were stuck with the backup models. 

“Scotty, you there?” Stiles said into the machine. 

“Yeah, I'm here,” his best friend's voice crackled. 

“I don't see anything out here,” Stiles reported. “I'm not getting any life readings either. I've placed all my sensors; I'm going back in. It's freezing out here.” 

“The cold's getting to you? I thought you were an abominable snowman,” Scott replied, laughing. 

Stiles huffed into the commlink.  Months ago, before they'd come to Hoth, some pilot had been giving Scott crap for turning into a wolf. Stiles had defended his friend, only for the jerk to ask Stiles if he turned into a wolf too. Stiles had sarcastically replied that he was an abominable snowman. Scott hadn't let him forget it since they'd gotten here. 

“I defend your werewolfitude, and  _ this _ is how you repay me? By  _ mocking _ me?” Stiles demanded. “That's it, I'm really going inside.” 

Scott laughed. “I'll be in in a minute. A meteor crashed in a bank nearby; I'm gonna check it out.” 

“Alright,” Stiles responded. “See you soon.” He stowed his commlink, snapping his goggles back on and pulling his face coverings up as well, shielding his skin from the icy winds. “Come on, girl,” he said, urging his steed back towards the base carved within the icy mountain. 

***

Scott put away his comms, shivering in the frigid air. He glanced over the horizon— nothing but snow and ice for miles and miles. They'd been to many different planets since the battle of Yavin, but none reminded Scott quite as much of Tatooine as this one. Nothing but miles of barren wasteland, without a trace of civilization— it was exactly like his old planet. The only differences were the snow banks instead of sand dunes, icy blizzards instead of sandstorms, and biting cold instead of scorching heat. 

Sometimes the cold almost made him  _ miss _ Tatooine. 

Scott looked back at the snow ridge that the meteor had crashed into. A thin trail of smoke was still drifting up from the bank. 

“Come on,” Scott said, urging his tauntaun ahead without looking forward. But the creature he was riding cried out in terror, and Scott whipped around. He caught a quick glimpse of a huge, hairy monster, a guttural growl coming from its fanged mouth, before everything went black. 

***

The moment he was back through the doors of the base, Stiles ripped off his face coverings, letting the warm air wash over his skin. Sliding off his tauntaun, he handed the creature off to a handler before walking deeper into the base. It was warmer inside, he guessed, but still— the fact that their base was carved out of the side of a snow-capped mountain didn’t exactly help with the last-minute heating system the Rebels had thrown together during base transfer. Stiles tugged his fur-lined hood off next, running a hand through his hair. At the end of the hangar, he paused in front of the Millennium Falcon, glancing at his beloved ship, who the cold  _ certainly _ was not helping. She had always been in a state of disrepair, but with the constant sub-zero temperatures, the ship was becoming harder and harder to fix. Even now, his first mate was on top of the starship, trying to repair something. 

Chewbacca howled in aggravation at Stiles, angrily gesturing to a circuit he couldn't get to work. Stiles threw up his hands in surrender. 

“Calm down, kest!” he called up to Chewie. “I have to see the general, and then I'll come help you fix it.” Chewie grumbled back his response as Stiles pulled off his coat, tossing it onto a pile of cargo to be loaded onto the Falcon. 

Stiles continued through the base, down the long, winding passages. Since the base was carved into a giant snowbank, essentially, all the passage walls were tightly-packed snow. Even with the heat, the base was still freezing— most likely because the heating systems anywhere other than high command seemed to be constantly experiencing technical difficulties. He'd had to trade in his light vest for a heavier jacket, and he wore that over his white button-downs, along with his old Navy pants and boots. He'd seen the snowsuits Scott and the rest of the pilots wore, and he had no interest in wearing those, despite Scott's assurance that they were soft and toasty warm. 

The only person in this base who seemed to agree with him on the whole “no orange snowsuit” thing other than high command was Lydia. 

Stiles wasn't quite sure how she had managed to get that custom snow suit in the middle of a war where the Rebellion had next to no credits and certainly had no one with fashion sense in charge of uniforms (see again: the orange snowsuits) but she looked about fifty times more presentable than all the other people on base combined at any given moment. He would know, because he spent about 75 percent of his time staring at her in wonder.  

He didn't have a problem, regardless of what Scott may say. 

But lately, things had been—  _ off _ between them. Ever since that mission to Ord Mantell, almost six months ago, their interactions were stiffer, more awkward. Stiles had spent about a week sitting next to her hospital bed while she recovered, and they had been especially close at that time— she’d hold his hand, he’d sit in bed with her, stroke her hair, keep her company and keep her close— for a moment, he’d almost believed they could maybe be more, that maybe she would realize how she felt. But after she’d fully recovered and left the med center, Lydia had acted like it never happened. She wouldn’t talk about it, or  _ anything _ about the Ord Mantell mission— especially not how she had taken a bullet for him. 

It almost made  _ Stiles _ want to scream. 

Chewie thought it was hilarious, and Scott assured Stiles everyone on base knew they were both hopelessly in love with each other, and the entire base had learned to just ignore the two of them whenever they fixed each other with longing gazes that radiated enough sexual tension to cut clean through the ice caps outside. According to Scott and Isaac, the pilots in Omega Squadron were taking  _ bets _ on when they would finally get together. 

Lydia’s complete disregard for this enormous thing that had passed between them was beyond irritating—she had basically told him that she couldn’t  _ live _ without him, for kriff’s sake— but as aggravating as it was, Stiles was not pushing her. She had to realize on her own time, no matter how long it took. Still, that didn’t mean he wasn’t frustrated with waiting, even if he was determined to keep just doing that. 

_ Anyways _ . 

Stiles entered the control room and sure enough, there was Lydia in her white snowsuit, her strawberry blonde hair braided around her head in a ring. Most of the other women on base cut their hair short or wore it back in ponytails, but Lydia's locks were up in increasingly complicated braids every day. She glanced over at him quickly, and their eyes met before hers darted back to the data she was watching someone analyze. 

Stiles made a beeline for General Morell, who was stationed a couple computers down from Lydia, discussing tactical plans with a commander. The general glanced over at Stiles as he approached, her dark, silky hair spilling over the fur-lined hood pooled around her shoulders. 

“General,” Stiles said in greeting, his military training kicking in and his back stiffening. 

“Captain Solo,” Morell responded. “How did your sweep go?” 

“Fine,” he responded, thinking back to his icy shift out on the tundra. “Nothing out there but snow and ice. Scott and I placed sensors, so if any life forms do turn up, we’ll know.” 

“Good,” she responded. “Anything else?” 

“Yeah,” Stiles responded, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand nervously. “I, uh, have to leave.” 

Morell just stared at him a moment, her dark eyes seeming to go right through him. Stiles twitched nervously. 

“I'm sorry to hear that,” she finally responded. “You're an excellent soldier.” 

“Yeah, well, Jackson the Hutt has a bounty on my head,” Stiles explained. That was his cover, even if it was only partially true. If Lydia found out the real reason he was leaving for a bit, she might actually kill him. 

Morell nodded in understanding. “A difficult thing to live with. Well, thank you for everything you've done, Stiles. And may the Force be with you.” 

Stiles nodded in thanks, before hurrying out of the command center. He was in such a rush to get back to his ship, he didn't hear Lydia following him until she called his name. 

_ “Stiles!” _ He whipped around at the sound of her voice, coming face-to-face with her. Her gloved hands were on her hips, and there was fire in her eyes. She stood almost a foot shorter than him, but when she had that look on her face, like she did now, Stiles completely forgot about how tiny she was. 

“You’re leaving?” she demanded, her eyes narrowing. 

“Um, maybe?” Stiles responded, only slightly terrified of the look on her face. “Yes?” 

_ “Why?” _ she fired back, and the hurt expression on her face nearly killed him. She was trying to hide it, to seem indifferent, but the betrayal behind her eyes was obvious.

As much as he hated hurting her, after Ord Mantell— it had to be done. Jackson needed to be paid off so that Stiles could fully and completely move on from that past life, leave his smuggling days in the dust. Once those ties were cut, maybe he could come back, fix things with Lydia. Maybe by then she’d realize how she felt. 

Stiles raised his eyebrows at her. “For one, that bounty hunter we ran into on Ord Mantell. I still have a price on my head.” 

They had stopped walking, coming to a stop in one of the south passages. 

“So?” she asked. “Why does that change anything? We’ve run into bounty hunters before and been fine!” 

_ “Why does that change anything?”  _ he echoed. “Because this time you got  _ shot,  _ Lydia!”

“And I’m  _ fine _ now,” she insisted. “It was a one time thing; a fluke. And it’s not going to happen again!” 

“Yeah, you’re right, it won’t,” he told her. “Because I’m going to pay off Jackson and be done with this whole ordeal, so that  _ bounty hunters _ don’t show up on missions anymore!” 

“It was one time, Stiles,” she said again. “There is literally no reason for you to leave. And we  _ need _ you here!” 

“I am not putting you in danger anymore, Lydia!” Stiles snapped, not thinking. He immediately bit his tongue, because Lydia was most likely not going to react well to that. 

“You’re not putting  _ me _ in danger?” she said, eyebrows raised, tone dangerous. “Don’t you  _ dare _ feed me some bantha shit like ‘I’m doing this because of  _ you.’” _ Stiles opened his mouth to defend himself, but Lydia cut him off. “No, don’t even— I can protect myself, Stiles; you know that.” 

“Lydia, you almost  _ died,” _ Stiles snapped, unable to keep it in anymore. The loth cat was out of the bag, anyway. “I know you don’t really remember it, but I do. You, laying on that floor, your blood  _ everywhere— _ ” he swallowed, looking away. “Seeing you bleeding out— that haunts my dreams. I thought you were going to  _ die.  _ I have  _ never  _ felt more terrified than I did in that moment.” 

“Stiles, I have made my peace with the fact that this Rebellion is probably going to kill me,” she said. “Don’t leave thinking you’re being  _ noble, _ or that you’re delaying the inevitable.” 

“No,” Stiles snapped, shaking his head at her. “Don’t— you better not be planning on dying for this cause. Nothing’s worth that.” 

“This is!” she snapped back. “I’ll gladly die if it means the galaxy goes free one day.” 

“What is the point of freeing the galaxy if you’re not around to see it?” Stiles demanded. “Do you not get this? You don't care about getting hurt, but you know how I'll feel? I'll be devastated. And if you die?” He looked at her, and the expression on his face, in his eyes, was so raw and full of emotion that Lydia froze. 

“I will literally go out of my freaking  _ mind.  _ Because death doesn't happen to you, Lydia.” His eyes bored into hers, pleading with her. “It happens to everyone around you, trying to figure out how they're gonna live the rest of their lives without you in it.  _ Please _ understand this. I am not putting you in any more danger than I already have.” 

“I can take care of myself,” she repeated, her expression ice cold. 

“I know,” he said, softer. “But I’m not going to be responsible for you getting hurt again.” He sighed. “And if Jackson finds out there’s someone I would literally  _ die _ for, he’ll try to do anything he can to use you to get to me. I’m not doing that to you.” 

“Wait a minute,” Lydia snapped, her expression fiery again. “So you’re allowed to die for me, but  _ I _ can’t want to save you? That is so—  _ immensely _ hypocritical, Stiles.” 

“No, it’s not,” he insisted, “because you’re  _ you,  _ Lydia! You’re so much more important to this whole thing than I am, and you are  _ not _ changing my mind on this, okay?” Lydia snapped her jaw closed in outrage, crossing her arms over her chest. Stiles continued,  “I’m not putting you in danger anymore. I’m going.” 

“Fine!” Lydia snapped. “You want to pretend to be noble, go ahead! You’re not changing anything!” 

“You’re not getting hurt because of me, okay?” he snapped.  _ Great.  _ This was exactly how he  _ didn’t _ want to leave things between them. He knew there was no way to make her see reason now. “Try to stay safe, okay?” he asked, voice gentler. Lydia, however, looked like she was about to explode with anger. Figuring it was probably best to leave before she actually  _ did  _ shout at him more, he turned, beginning to walk down the icy passage to the Falcon. 

“Enjoy your trip, hotshot!” Lydia screamed after him, her voice full of venom. Stiles just kept walking, trying to let the acidic tone of her voice roll off his back.  _ You’re doing this for her,  _ he reminded himself. And he was. Anything he could do, he would, if it meant keeping the girl he loved safe. 

***

Lydia was  _ seething.  _

She stood stock-still in the middle of the corridor, watching Stiles retreat back to his ship, hands tucked in his pockets and shoulders hunched against the cold. Her heart was still pounding from their argument, his words ringing in her head:  _ I am not going to be responsible for you getting hurt again.  _ She really wanted nothing more than to strangle him with her bare hands, but on the other hand—

It infuriated her that he was leaving because he thought he was being  _ noble,  _ that he was convinced he was saving her somehow. The fact that he thought he was responsible for what had happened on Ord Mantell— like she couldn’t make her own choices, save her own friends if she wanted to. She didn’t remember a lot of the trip back to base when she’d been shot, but she did remember what she had told Stiles:  _ I couldn’t keep going without you. _ She had meant every word. As much as she’d like to deny it, or push it off or something, she cared about him more than she was willing to admit, and in more than a just-friends way. 

She hadn’t known what to say to Stiles since the incident on Ord Mantell. The week after they’d gotten back to base, when she had been in the med center, he’d spent the entire time practically  _ in _ her hospital bed with her, and when the med droids  _ did _ yell at him, he’d retreat to the chair permanently fixed next to her bed.  _ That _ was what being loved by Stiles felt like, constant and warm and all-encompassing— and it terrified her to no end. Everything she’d ever loved had just been taken from her relentlessly— her home, her people, her family. She wasn’t going to put him in danger by loving him. She couldn’t go through losing him.

But now, it looked like he was walking out of her life anyways. What was she going to do with him gone? Who would she ask advice from? Who would pore over battle plans with her past midnight every other night? Who would bring her a steaming cup of caf every morning, made exactly the way she liked it, when she was exhausted from running a rebellion but still had more work to do? 

If he left now, she would already have a gape in her heart, where her two best friends had somehow managed to worm themselves in. But if they became something— if she actually let her feelings for him grow, instead of trying to tamp them down— what would she do if she actually lost him for good, after letting herself love him? What if when he got to Jackson, the Hutt killed him out of anger? What if it really  _ wasn’t _ about the money anymore, and Stiles died? What would she do with him gone forever? 

She wasn't sure. And after Alderaan, she couldn't take the risk. 

So Lydia did the only sensible thing she could do at times when Stiles drove her particularly crazy: she went to find Scott, so she could vent. 

***

Stiles loved his ship more than anything, but he'd had it with her circuitry.

He blamed the stupid kriffing rebellion, and their stupid kriffing ice planet. The cold was freezing all of the Falcon's wiring, which was making it increasingly hard to repair her. 

He also couldn't bring himself to admit that she truly was in bad shape, and probably needed to go to an actual repair bay. 

“No, Chewie, what are you doing?” Stiles cried, as his first mate pulled out another section of circuitry. “I'm trying to get us out of here; we can fix that later!” 

_ This ship is going to fall apart the next time we try to fly it!  _ Chewie howled back in dissent. 

Stiles groaned. “Just focus on the hyperdrive, okay?” Chewie grudgingly agreed, fixing the wires he'd just torn out. 

“Excuse me, Captain Solo,” Stiles heard over his shoulder. He groaned again. Today was _ not _ his day. 

“What?” he said, turning to face C-3PO. Stiles wasn't sure why, but the droid just got on his nerves. 

“Have you spoken to Princess Lydia, sir? She's been trying to reach you on your communication link,” the droid responded. 

“No,” Stiles retorted, trying to sound only mildly bitter. “I’ve been working on the ship. We’re leaving soon.” 

“Oh, well,” the droid continued. “Princess Lydia was wondering if you had seen Master Scott anywhere. No one has seen him since he went out for his patrol with you.” 

“What do you mean, no one's seen him?” Stiles demanded. “I've been back hours, and he was right behind me.” 

Stiles glanced around the hangar, before spotting Isaac lounging over by his X-Wing, with the other Omega squadron pilots. Sighing in defeat, he walked over to Scott’s squadron— Isaac was good friends with Scott, but Stiles had never exactly gotten along with him. 

“Stiles?” Isaac said at his approach, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion. He must have been able to tell something was wrong from Stiles’s expression, because he didn’t even give him any snide remarks first. 

“Have you seen Scott anywhere?” Stiles demanded, surveying the rest of Omega squadron.

“No,” Isaac replied, shaking his head. He glanced at the holopad in his lap. “Let me see— yeah. He didn’t check in after his patrol.”

“He might have forgotten,” Harley suggested.

“No, he wouldn't forget,” Stiles mused. “Could he have come in the south entrance?” 

“I don’t know,” Isaac responded. “I guess he could have.”

“I’m gonna go check,” Stiles said, starting for the opposite side of the base, and Isaac stood too. 

“I’ll come,” he offered, shrugging. “He  _ is _ my commanding officer.” 

When they got to the south passage, the officer there informed them Scott hadn't come in that entrance either. 

“He's still out there, then,” Stiles realized, fear for his friend's life flooding him. Jedi or not, the cold would definitely kill him if he was out in it all night. 

“We have to find him,” Stiles announced. “Are the speeders mobilized yet?” 

“No, they won't work in weather this cold,” the officer replied. “In daylight, sure, but the sun's already set.” 

“Okay, then I'll take a tauntaun,” Stiles replied, glad he had put his coat back on. He pulled the furry hood over his head, leaving the flap of warm fabric that would shield his face from the icy winds still dangling. Grabbing a survival pack, he slung it over a tauntaun.

“Stiles, you can't go out there,” Isaac insisted, expression alarmed. “The temperature's dropping too quickly.” 

“Yeah, and Scott's out there,” Stiles replied, tugging on his snow goggles. “I’m going to find him.” 

“Just hold on a minute,” Isaac replied. “Okay, there has to be a better way to do this. Think rationally.” 

“Rationale has never been my strong suit,” Stiles retorted, clambering onto the tauntaun. 

“Wait, Stiles! Your tauntaun will freeze before you reach the first marker!” Isaac called as Stiles guided his tauntaun to the base doors. 

“Then I'll see you in hell!” Stiles snapped, nudging the animal and heading out into the snowy tundra. 

***

When Scott came to, the first thing he noticed was that he was hanging upside down. 

Slowly, he blinked, feeling ice crystals on his eyelashes when they brushed his cheekbones. He was in an icy cave, it seemed, his feet tied up to the ceiling, frozen-solid straps holding him in place. 

Woozily, he glanced around, his gaze catching a glimpse of a giant wampa in the corner of cave, devouring what looked like his poor tauntaun. His stomach twisted into knots as he surveyed the rest of the cave, seeing nothing but snow and ice. 

And then he saw it— his lightsaber was stuck in a snowbank, out of his reach. 

Scott immediately pulled his upper body up, trying to undo the bindings holding him. His head felt fuzzy, though; he'd been hit, because he could feel the blood on his forehead, running down into his hairline. Hanging upside down for an indeterminate amount of time certainly didn't help. 

The wampa shifted a bit, and Scott caught a better glimpse of it. It held a chunk of raw meat in its huge, clawed hands, blood trickling down from its mouth and streaking the white fur on its face with red. Scott tried desperately to free himself, but to no avail. 

Giving up on untying the straps, Scott swung back down so he was fully upside down again. If only he could get his lightsaber... 

He remembered the few conversations he had with Derek, and the occasional instances the old man's voice would pop into his head to offer advice. He had told Scott once that Jedi could move things using the Force and their minds. If Scott could summon his lightsaber from here, he could definitely free himself. 

Reaching out a hand, Scott focused with all his energy on pulling the lightsaber from the snow and it zooming into his hand. He tried to concentrate, tried to trigger the shift from human to wolf, tried to channel the Force. The lightsaber wiggled a bit, freeing itself from the snow and moving a few centimeters closer.  

The wampa moved in the corner, looking over and seeing that Scott had come to. Scott focused more, but his head was still foggy, and fear was making it hard for him to think straight. The lightsaber wiggled again, but still remained stuck in the ice. 

The wampa stood now, putting down its bloody hunk of meat. He could see it in its entirety now— huge and hulking, covered in thick white fur, with a mouth full of sharp teeth and paws with razor-sharp claws. When it stood on its two legs, it had to tower at least ten feet tall. Scott forced everything else out of his mind, focusing purely on the Force, trying to feel the energy flowing through him, making all his senses sharper— his vision cleared a little, and he could feel the buzzing in his core. 

The beast drew closer, faster now, seeing Scott struggling to get free. Scott focused with all his might, envisioning the lightsaber soaring into his hand. And then it did— Scott felt all his senses sharpen, felt the electric flow of the Force through him. His lightsaber jumped free of the ice, and flew into his hands. Scott powered it up, slicing through his bindings with one fluid motion. He fell from the ceiling, crumpling on the ground and hitting his head again. Stars danced in front of his eyes, but he managed to get to his feet, his lightsaber raised. The wampa was even more horrible up close— he could see its matted white fur, blood dribbling down its front, and razor-like claws extended. It opened its mouth, showing off its rows of sharp teeth, before letting out a guttural, horrifying growl. 

The beast swept at Scott with its clawed hand, but Scott was faster. Before the wampa's claws cut him to shreds, he swung his saber up, cutting off the beast's arm. It thudded to the ground, and the wampa howled in pain. 

Scott took advantage of the beast's preoccupation with its missing limb to dart past it, sprinting out of the cave and into the icy tundra. From the inky black sky, he could tell the sun had already set, and the frigid wind was picking up, blowing snow and ice in his face. His face coverings were dangling open, and Scott tried to close them, but he found his fingers weren't working very well. The electric buzz of the Force was fading, and his head was getting cloudy again. He stumbled through the knee-deep snow, not knowing where he was at all, or even what way he should head to get back to the base. 

He was so tired. His vision was getting darker. Scott fell to his knees in the snow. The cold was starting to feel  _ warm. _ That couldn't be good, right? 

“Scott,” a voice said, and Scott glanced up, only to be faced with Derek.  _ Derek _ was standing in front of him. But he looked wrong. He was all shiny, and the wind wasn't making his robes move, the way it was making Scott's face coverings flap in the wind like a ripped sail. 

_ “Derek?” _ Scott asked. “What are you  _ doing _ here?  _ How _ are you here?” 

Derek rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. “I'm not here, Scott, I'm dead.” 

“But then you're— a ghost?” Scott questioned. 

Derek crossed his ghostly arms. “The Force is weird, Scott, okay? Just listen. You have to go to the Dagobah System. There, you'll find Talia Hale. She's a powerful Jedi Master. She'll teach you how to control your powers. Okay? Go to the Dagobah system.” 

“Dagobah…” Scott muttered, his vision getting even blurrier. Derek vanished in front of him, only to be replaced by Stiles. But Stiles wasn't shiny— he was real. The wind was battering him, and the furry trim of his hoo d was covered in ice. What was he doing out here?

Scott tried to ask, but for the second time that day, he blacked out. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So you can blame fluid mechanics for the SUPER late post. Sorry y'all. Seriously. All fluids' fault. 
> 
> ANyways, I hope you like this chapter! Let the pining commence, amirite? Wow, can you tell how tired I am? 
> 
> I'm stilesssolo on tumblr and twitter if you want to talk to me when I'm less sleep deprived. Enjoy!

“Kest, Scott, no!” Stiles yelped, hopping off his tauntaun and reaching for his best friend. His skin was freezing, his lips turning blue, and his hair was crusted with chunks of ice. 

“Come on, Scott, stay with me,” Stiles said, moving his cheek in front of Scott's mouth, relieved to feel his friend's breath against his skin. “We've gotta get you back to base... No, _ no!”  _

There was a crash behind Stiles, as his tauntaun fell over, dead. The poor thing had succumbed to the freezing elements. 

“Kriffing  _ hell _ ,  _ seriously?” _ Stiles exclaimed, his mind racing. They were way too far from base to walk back, even if he  _ could _ carry Scott back. He had the shelter from the survival pack, but Scott needed warmth now. In this wind, it would take him at least half an hour to set up the shelter. Scott could die in minutes. 

Stiles spotted Scott's lightsaber, grasped loosely in his friend's hand. Grabbing it, Stiles dragged Scott's unmoving body over to the dead tauntaun. The lightsaber was heavy in his hand, heavier than it looked. He hit a button, and a blue beam of light shot out of the hilt. 

Stiles swiped at the tauntaun's underbelly with the lightsaber, slicing it open easily. Turning the lightsaber off, Stiles pulled the tauntaun open, gagging at the smell. 

“Kest, Scott, you're lucky I love you,” he muttered, stuffing his best friend inside the carcass. It was disgusting, but it would keep him warm until Stiles could get the shelter up. 

“And I thought they smelled bad on the outside,” he muttered, grabbing the survival pack and starting on the shelter. 

***

Lydia was pacing. 

C-3PO had found her two hours ago and informed her that Stiles had gone out in the arctic storm after Scott. No one had heard from either of them since. 

The crewmen were anxious to close the shield doors, as it was late into the night. 

“As much as I hate to say it, there's no way they survived this long out there,” one had told her. “Their tauntaun would have to be dead, at least, and they'll be stuck out there.” 

Everyone kept saying there was no way they could survive this storm, but Lydia knew they were alive. She couldn't explain how, but she could feel it. 

So she paced. 

Artoo was scanning for life forms at the hangar door, Threepio standing next to him. Lydia was sick of stalking up and down the length in front of the Falcon, so she walked over to the two droids. 

“Artoo is not picking up any signs of life, princess,” Threepio reported as Lydia joined them. “Though he does confess with this storm there is much interference, and he could be getting a reading that is not entirely accurate.” 

Lydia nodded her head, looking out into the bleak white world beyond the hangar door. Snow whipped in from the storm, catching in the braids wound up on her head. 

“Princess?” one of the officers asked, approaching her cautiously. “It's getting really late. We have to close the shield doors.” 

Lydia sighed. Scott and Stiles were her two best friends, and as much as she didn't want to give up hope, she did have a duty to the safety of the base. She had to do her job.

“Okay,” she whispered, glancing out into the storm again. She knew they were out there still. Hopefully they would be okay in the morning. 

She didn't sleep at all that night. 

Not that she normally slept, between the nightmares of Alderaan exploding or Darth Vader torturing her, but generally when she couldn't sleep, she went and found Scott or Stiles. When she had been little and plagued by nightmares on Alderaan, she would always find her mother and allow her to stroke her hair and hold her close and sing her back to sleep. Lydia's immediate reaction to waking up screaming was to find her mother, even after three years, but then the despair would set in when she realized she could never do that again. Her mother was gone, and so was her planet, and it made the nightmares even worse. Now when Lydia was struck with night terrors, she would go find her friends. Scott would tell her stories about his father that his mom had used to tell him, and Stiles would make her a cup of caf and explain whatever part of the Falcon he was tinkering with, and Chewbacca would teach her more Shyriiwook, while telling her about his family on Kashyyyk as well. 

Chewie was already asleep, and she felt bad waking him, so Lydia spent the night poring over intercepted Imperial codes, trying to crack them, while still certain in her gut that her friends were alive. Sometimes she would go down to the medicenter and get drugs to knock her out, but they hadn't been on a medical supply run since before Ord Mantell. She knew the only drugs they had that would put to her to sleep had to be administered by needle, and she hadn't gotten a shot since before the Death Star. She couldn't go anywhere near needles now, thanks to Vader. Another item on the list of things that made her seriously messed up. 

She managed to get an hour or two of sleep before nightmares hit her. Her dreams had been different lately— while generally just the horrors of the Death Star haunted her at night, recently different things had been surfacing in her dreams: planets made of lava, a woman with dark hair and wild, heartbroken eyes that were vibrantly blue, and a body lying on the blackened ground, with a face so mangled and scarred it was almost inhuman, with glowing eyes and a twisted mouth—

Lydia awoke at four a.m. standard time after one of those dreams and decided it wasn’t worth trying to sleep again. 

As soon as the sun rose, Lydia was on her way to the command center, ready to order a rescue mission. She sighed in relief when she saw Isaac, already suited up, turn a corner and join her in the walk to command. 

“You didn’t sleep,” he commented, as if her insomnia was a surprising new development. Any time the Omega squadron had night guard shifts, Lydia always hung around with them, because sleeping was something she avoided if possible. They hadn’t been on duty last night, unfortunately, or she would have joined them instead of being fitfully woken by nightmare after nightmare. 

“I couldn’t,” she told Isaac, not meeting his eye. 

“We’re gonna find them,” Isaac promised. “Stiles is a pain in the ass most of the time, and having Scott as your commanding officer means you get signed up for  _ way _ more rescue missions than you ever imagined you’d run. But,” he smiled that crooked grin at Lydia, “we’re not leaving them behind. Me and everyone else in Rogue Squadron— we’re going out whether High Command gives us permission or not.” 

“Thank you,” Lydia breathed, her shoulders sagging in relief. Isaac just nodded slightly, eyes up ahead. 

When they got into Command, Scott's squadron of fighter pilots was already suited up and ready to take the speeders out. The officers standing beside them, however, did not look as ready to send people out into the frozen tundra. 

“All due respect, Princess,” one of the officers started, “but there's a very large chance they didn't make it. Should we really be distracting from the Rebellion and sending so many fighters out when there's so much else we need to do?” 

Lydia stared daggers. She would find her friends if she needed to take a tauntaun out there _ herself _ , for the love of gods. 

“They are alive,” she insisted, her tone steely and her gaze deadly. “I know it, I feel it. Now we're going looking for them, regardless of what you might say, even if I have to go out by myself. So we can either do this the easy way, or the hard way.” 

The officer didn't say anything else. 

Lydia turned to the Omega Squadron. “Go find them.” 

They nodded and darted for the doorway, Isaac in the lead, quickly leaving the command center for the hangar where their speeders were waiting. 

It was almost an hour before Lydia heard anything. 

“Princess?” Lydia heard coming from her commlink, as she waited anxiously by the hangar doors. 

“Yes?” she responded, dreading the worst. 

“We've got them,” Isaac responded. “Scott's in bad shape, but he's alive. We're taking them in now.” 

“Thank the stars,” Lydia responded. “Get here as fast as you can, Isaac.” 

“On it,” he responded, before the connection ended. Minutes later, Isaac’s cruiser sped back into the hangar. 

“Get a medical team!” Isaac called, throwing the top of the speeder open. “Scott's in bad condition.” Isaac hopped out of the speeder, closely followed by Stiles, who was carrying his unconscious best friend. A medical team hurried over, taking Scott and lowering him onto a stretcher, before rushing him down the passage. Stiles seemed paler than normal, his lips slightly blue, but other than that, he was standing and moving just fine. Lydia froze for a moment, fighting the urge to run over and tackle him in a hug and never let him go again. She was still mad at him—  _ really _ mad at him— after their fight in the corridor yesterday, but seeing him  _ alive _ , after he rushed out in the storm and risked his life… 

Seeing him alive and well, albeit a little frostbitten, standing only twenty yards away, made her anger subside considerably. 

Chewbacca beat her to the punch, though, tackling his friend in what looked like a crushing hug. Stiles laughed at his first mate, thumping him on the back. When Chewie released him, a wide grin still on Stiles's face, Lydia made up her mind. 

“Stiles!” she called, finally unfreezing and pushing her way through the crowded hanger. She flung her arms around him, hugging him tightly. She felt his body stiffen, before he relaxed slightly and wound his arms around her. 

“Thank the stars you're okay,” she mumbled into his chest. Pulling away from him, she looked at him. He looked shocked at her outburst, and there was a slight slight shadow of stubble across his chin that made Lydia gulp. She’d never seen him  _ not _ clean-shaven before, but he looked  _ good _ all scruffy.  There was something in his amber eyes she couldn't quite read. 

_ Stars _ , she wanted to kiss him so badly. 

Instead, she shoved him in the chest. 

“Ow! What the—” he looked at her incredulously. “What the hell, your worship?” From the side, Chewie laughed at his copilot's outrage before turning and retreating to the Falcon. 

“Don't  _ ever _ scare me like that again,” she said sternly, pointing a finger at him. She inhaled, and wrinkled her nose. “You smell horrible.” 

“Well, Scott and I slept in a tauntaun,” he explained, his look of outrage having disappeared, though he still seemed wary of her anger. “Seemed like the best way to keep warm.” 

She raised her eyebrows. “Not a bad idea.” She looked at him again, his eyes trapping hers. God, she could just look at him forever. 

“Thank you,” she said quietly, squeezing his hand briefly. “You two are my best friends. I don't know what I'd do without you.” 

Stiles shrugged. “Probably relax. Have significantly less stress. Between Scott's hero complex and my... everything, I guess.” 

Lydia smiled at him, just as her holopad beeped. Glad to have an excuse to look away before she did something stupid, like pull Stiles into a dark corner and kiss him for the foreseeable future, she glanced down at it and breathed a sigh of relief. “Scott's going to be okay,” she reported, looking back up at Stiles. “He's in a bacta tank now, but he's responding well. He should be fine.” 

“Good,” Stiles responded. “In that case, I'm gonna go take a shower. Then I'll go down and check on him.” 

“I have codes to crack,” Lydia responded. “When he's out of the bacta, I'll go visit him. I'll see you later, Captain.” 

“Of course, your highnessness,” Stiles replied, giving her that lopsided grin that sent her heart into overdrive, before heading out of the hangar and back towards his ship. 

***

By the next morning, Threepio informed Lydia that Scott was out of bacta and resting in the medicenter. She immediately passed off her codes, though she didn't expect anyone else to be able to break them. Hurrying into the medicenter, she spotted Scott in a bed at the end of the small room, in clean clothing, with a medical droid hovering over him. 

“I'm fine,” Scott told the droid. “I don't need more pain medication, really. I feel okay.” 

“Scott!” Lydia said, hurrying over to her friend's bed. His head whipped towards her, which immediately made him wince. 

“Careful,” she told him, perching on the end of the bed. He had a nasty-looking cut over his eye, but it was already starting to heal. His whole face looked bruised, and he was still paler than normal, but his eyes were bright and he seemed alert. 

“Sorry,” he said, slowly turning his head towards her this time. 

“Don't apologize to me,” she said, chuckling. “Thank the stars you're alright. You worried me.” 

“That I  _ am _ sorry about,” he replied. “Thank you. For sending the fleet out. For not giving up on us.” 

“Of course,” she said. “I just...” 

“What?” Scott replied, sitting up. 

“I don't know how, but...” she looked at him, her voice growing quiet. “You're going to think I'm crazy.” 

He gave her a smile. “Lydia, I'm part werewolf. It would take something insane for me to think  _ you're _ crazy.” 

She took a deep breath. “I  _ felt _ it,” she said. “I knew you were alive, both of you. It was this feeling in my stomach, like I could almost see you. I don't know,” she muttered, glancing away. “That sounds stupid.” 

“No, it doesn't,” Scott insisted. “I don't understand all of my power yet. But Derek said something to me about how he could feel my presence through the Force. Maybe it was that. Maybe… maybe you have powers too.” 

“No, it's not the same as you,” she responded. “I don't have super strength, or senses, or reflexes.” 

Scott gave her a look. “That doesn't mean your powers aren't real.” 

He cleared his throat, before continuing. “I have to go somewhere, learn how to become a Jedi. Maybe I'll find out something that will—” 

“Wait,” Lydia cut him off.  _ “What?” _

“I, uh,” Scott said, glancing at her. “I have to go away for a little while.” 

_ “Seriously?” _ Lydia said, standing up and stalking to the other side of the room. “First Stiles, now you?” 

“Wait, what about Stiles?” Scott asked. Lydia was so mad, she barely heard him. 

“I swear, am I the only responsible one around here?” she retorted. “I was doing fine before you two moon jockeys came and turned my entire kriffing life upside down.” 

“First,” Scott began, “You were scheduled for execution on the Death Star, so you weren't completely fine. Second, you've been hanging out with Stiles too much, you're starting to swear like him. Third— is he going somewhere?” 

Lydia rolled her eyes. “He's leaving. He still has to pay off some gangster he owes, or something.”

“Jackson the Hutt,” Scott supplied. 

“Sure,” Lydia responded, rolling her eyes again, deciding to leave it at that and not get into the entire ordeal behind Stiles taking off. “The point is, he's leaving. He would have gone last night, but he went to find you instead.” 

“Talking about me, your worshipfulness?” Stiles asked, waltzing into the medicenter, Chewbacca behind him. Scott's face lit up at seeing his best friend. 

“Hey, Scotty,” Stiles greeted him, standing next to the bed and grinning at his friend. “You're looking better. Maybe even strong enough to pull ears off a gundark.” Scott grinned, and Stiles scrunched up his eyebrows, studying him. “Your jaw's still kind of crooked, though,” he concluded. “But you do look pretty good for wrestling a wampa.”  

“It's impressive that you're in as good shape as you are right now,” Lydia cut in. “Generally, for an injury of this magnitude, bacta would take longer than this to take effect. I wonder if your werewolf genes allow you to heal better,” she mused. “Technically speaking, you should have died out there, long before Stiles found you. Head injury and freezing cold? Not a good combination.” 

“I don't know,” Stiles responded. “Sometimes there are other things you wouldn't think would be a good combination, and they end up being a perfect combination. Like protecting people and leaving. You know, doing it for the right reasons.” 

Scott was trying not to laugh. Lydia just looked at him, making her face unreadable. He was seriously bringing  _ this _ up again? 

“No, I can see that,” Lydia responded, her voice serious. She could see the shock in Stiles's eyes. He thought she was finally coming around. 

Instead, she gave him a pristine smile. “Scott leaving to learn the way of the Jedi to protect the galaxy  _ is _ a pretty good cause.” 

Stiles was seething.  _ “Seriously?”  _ he demanded. 

Now Lydia got mad. “What do you want me to say, Stiles?” 

_ “That you understand!” _ he responded. “I’m sorry that I want you to be safe, kriffing hell! And every time I try to explain to you why I  _ need _ to leave, you get mad and start _ screaming, _ and—” 

“So it's  _ my _ fault?” She demanded. 

“Well, you're the one who won’t listen to me—” 

_ “Listen?!  _ You—” Lydia could feel her anger expanding, the blood pounding in her head. Gods, sometimes she just wanted to  _ strangle _ Stiles. “You stuck up, half-witted, scruffy-looking…  _ nerfherder!”  _

Stiles froze at that. She'd called him a lot of things— laser brain, flyboy, et cetera— but nerfherder was a new low. 

“I don’t need you protecting me, Stiles, okay?” she continued. “I can take care of myself.”

“Lydia—” he started, but she cut him off again, shaking her head in anger.

“I don't know where you get your delusions, laser brain, but you clearly don't know everything about me if you think I’m that helpless.” 

Stiles's jaw had dropped. Chewie was laughing behind him.  

“I don’t think you’re helpless, Lydia,” he said, his voice quiet and pleading, but she was done with this argument. 

“Stiles, just go, please.” 

Stiles glared at his first mate, who was still laughing at him unapologetically. “Laugh it up, fuzzball,” Stiles retorted. “Come on, let's go.” He turned to Scott. “Feel better, Scotty.” 

And with that, he left the medical center. 

Lydia turned to Scott. “I'm so sorry about that,” she said, gesturing to indicate the fight. “I'm just so sick of him trying to get me to  _ agree _ to this— he thinks he’s being noble, or saving me, when all I really want…” she trailed off. 

“It's fine,” Scott said, giving her a small grin. “But why won't you just tell him?” 

_ Oh gods _ , Lydia thought.  _ Please don’t be talking about what I think you’re talking about.  _

“What do you mean?” she said, playing dumb. Scott just gave her a look.

“I can hear your heartbeat, Lydia,” he said, and Lydia groaned. Scott and his supernatural hearing, for sith's sake, couldn't anyone just let her pine in solitude? 

“I don't know, Scott,” she said quietly, defeated. After Ord Mantell— the week Stiles had spent in the med center with her— that was when everything had changed. Lydia had know how Stiles had felt about about her, but up until then… she had never wanted to tell him that she felt the same as much as she had that week. But her feelings for Stiles, even though they were still newly discovered, were stronger than anything she’d felt in a  _ while.  _ Stronger than she’d ever felt about one other person, most definitely. And that terrified her to no end.  

Lydia  sighed, looking up to meet Scott’s eyes again. “My planet was destroyed. Every time we go on a mission, we lose more soldiers. Everyone I've ever loved, I've lost. You and him, you're the only people I have left. And I don’t want to go through that again, Scott,” she said, looking at him, her expression tired. “I’m so  _ sick  _ of losing people.” 

“He thinks he’s doing the right thing,” Scott added. “Lydia, you should have seen him after you got out of surgery. He’s been struggling with this for months. He’s convinced it’s his fault you got shot.” 

“But it’s not,” Lydia sighed, failing to keep the aggravation out of her voice. “What if he goes back there and Jackson is so mad that he kills Stiles? How am I supposed to get through that?” She paused, looking down. “All I want is for him to just  _ stay here.  _ Be with m—  _ us.  _ Be with us.” 

“Maybe,” Scott said, looking at her with brown eyes full of compassion, “if you tell him, he'll stop trying to leave.” 

She just looked at Scott, this boy who had slowly become one of her best friends, had somehow broken her out of her cell and subsequently wormed his way into her heart. 

“I don't have to go,” Scott added quietly. “I shouldn't go. I'll stay here.” 

“No,” Lydia responded, looking at her friend. “No, you should go. You have to learn how to control your powers. You have to become a Jedi.” 

“Are you sure?” he asked, his eyes full of concern. 

“Yes,” she insisted. “Scott, you're destined to help people. And if you learn how to control this— maybe that's the key to defeating the Empire.” She glanced around the room. “The Empire killed off all the Jedi, right? That must mean they were afraid of them. They must have  _ some _ power, some power that the Empire is scared of— a power that could end this.” 

“Okay,” Scott replied. “I'll go. But if you need me— contact me. I won't be far. I'll come back and help.” 

“I know,” she said, taking his hand and squeezing it, just as her holopad began beeping at her, summoning her off to somewhere on base. 

“Thank you, Scott,” she said, giving him a little smile. “I have to go to command, but I'll see you later. Rest up.” He smiled back at her, before she left the medicenter and headed down the passage for the command center. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the next chapter! I would just like to preface this by saying I HATE the Battle of Hoth. I tried to shorten it, I really did. 
> 
> Anyways, I hope you enjoy! I'm stilesssolo on tumblr and twitter. Thanks for reading!!

When Lydia walked into the command center, Stiles decided the universe definitely did hate him. 

Of course General Morell had called her down to see the same thing that she had asked Stiles to look at. She acted like their exchange in the medicenter hadn't happened at all, walking right over and standing next to him. 

She was only inches away. He could smell the flowery scent of her hair, still braided around her head in a loop, and it was driving him mad. 

“What are we looking at?” Lydia asked, and Stiles tore his eyes away from her, back towards the monitor in front of them, forgetting momentarily they were here for a reason. 

Staring at the screen, Stiles didn't see anything but snow drifts. He recognized it was the area Scott had been patrolling yesterday, though, because he could see one of the markers in the far corner. 

“Something's behind that snowbank,” Morell said. “But we're not picking up life readings. It's something metal.” The general turned to Stiles. “Did you see anything out on your patrol here yesterday?” 

Stiles shrugged. “No, but that was Scott's sector. He had said he was going to check out a meteorite before he got attacked; could it be that?” 

“Wait, listen,” Lydia said, putting her ear closer to the machine. Stiles listened, and sure enough, there was a faint buzz coming from the feed. Lydia messed with the volume, before finally they could make out a mechanical voice. It sounded like a droid, speaking in a strange language. 

“What's it saying?” Stiles asked Lydia, glancing away from the screen and down at her. She loved languages, and her list of known languages could almost rival Threepio's: Basic and Alderaanian, obviously, plus others, like Chandrilan, Hapan, Binary, Corellian, Rodian, Twi’leki, Aqualish— he was pretty sure she knew Huttese, too, though why she would ever need to understand the language of the most notorious gangsters in the galaxy, he didn't know. She always surprised him with the bits and pieces she could comprehend of other languages as well— she could sing one lullaby from Naboo that her mother had taught her in the planet's native tongue, and understand Stiles when he would mutter to himself in Old Corellian. Old Corellian was a dead language, save for historians and smugglers, who used it so no one else could understand them, but Lydia knew chunks of it, which caught him by surprise and made him watch what he said in his native language around her. (When he'd asked her why the hell she knew Old Corellian, she'd simply replied primly that when she was thirteen and had mastered Modern Corellian, she'd gotten bored and decided to learn Old Corellian too.) She was learning Shyriiwook from Chewie in her spare time, and when Scott would mumble something in Bocce or swear in Huttese, she always would understand him. 

“I don't know,” Lydia mused. “It doesn't sound like a language. Might be a code.” 

“But whose code?” Morell asked. “One of ours? I don't recognize it.” 

“Excuse me, general,” C-3PO interrupted, appearing behind them. “But I am fluent in over six million forms of communication. This code is not used by the Alliance. It could be an Imperial code.” 

Lydia and Morell had matching looks of alarm on their faces. 

“Chewie and I can go check it out,” Stiles volunteered. “Might as well. We're not allowed to leave now; not until the energy field is activated.” Morell had just sent out the order earlier— she thought it was too dangerous for anyone to go off-planet until the energy shield was working again, so that the rebels wouldn't be defenseless if the Empire noticed where they were. 

“Thank you, Captain Solo,” Morell said, fixing him with that intense stare of hers. Stiles nodded, glancing down at Lydia. She was staring at him too, something unreadable in her wide green eyes. 

“Be careful,” she said. “If you get stuck in a snowstorm, I am  _ not _ coming out to rescue you.” 

He grinned at her. “When am I not careful, your worship?” 

***

“Look Chewie, right there,” Stiles whispered, gesturing over the snowbank they were hiding behind. A black droid was hovering in the air maybe ten yards away, its half-spherical head rotating over its long, dangling legs. It was still giving off that strange code, and Stiles could see camera lenses on its domed head. 

He held up his macrobinoculars, zooming in on the droid. They were linked to command, so Lydia would get the image feed in a minute— the cold made everything move slower than usual. 

The droid moved closer, though it seemed to still not detect them, but Chewie roared in alarm. The droid's head immediately twisted towards them, letting off a series of blaster bolts on the snowbank they were hiding behind. 

“Oh, sith,” Stiles muttered, pulling Chewie down and grabbing out his blaster. The thing was still firing on them. Quickly glancing over the snowbank, he shot at the droid, the blaster fire just barely grazing the droid. That seemed to trigger something, though, because seconds later, the entire droid exploded, the hot red flames brilliant against the white expanse of snow. 

“Stiles? Are you okay?” he heard Lydia's voice from his comms unit. Grabbing it and bringing it to his mouth, he responded. “Yeah, we're fine.” 

“What was that?” her voice came back. 

“Droid of some kind,” he told her. “It just exploded. Must have had a self-destruct, because I didn't hit it that hard.” 

“We're just getting your feed now,” Lydia told him. “Yeah— that's an imperial probe droid.” 

“Well, kest,” Stiles muttered. “The empire probably knows we're here now.” 

“Just get back inside,” Lydia responded, and was Stiles imagining it, or was her authoritative voice just the smallest bit worried about him? 

“On it, your worship,” Stiles replied. “Come on, Chewie, let's go.” 

***

Lord Vader was beyond exasperated. 

It had been nearly six standard months, and there had not been a clue as to Skywalker's whereabouts. They had sent probe droids to every known system, only for them to turn up empty handed. Vader stormed down the hallway to commands, where the all the probe droid's monitors were. Skywalker couldn't have just left the galaxy, he  _ had _ to be somewhere. 

Passing the commands center, Vader paused momentarily, honing in on the hushed chatter between Admiral Brunski, General Cross, and one of the tech officers. 

“But it could be nothing—”

“Brunski, it's the biggest lead we've had in months—”

“I don't think we should tell Lord Vader unless we have concrete proof—”

“Tell me what?” Vader demanded, entering the room. “Did you find something?”'

“We don't know—” 

“Quiet, Brunski,” Vader snapped. “General Cross, what did you find?”'

“This, my Lord,” she said, pointing to the screen. “This droid just self-destructed. Before it did, this was what it captured.” It was surveillance footage, and it seemed to be of power generators, next to a low bunker that disappeared into a mountain. Vader knew, intrinsically— this was it.

“That's the system,” Vader breathed, glancing at the screen. Skywalker was there— he  _ had _ to be. 

“We don't know that, my Lord,” Brunski insisted. “There are unchartered territories— it could be settlers, or smugglers, or—” 

“No, it's them,” Vader insisted. “I know it is. And Skywalker is with them.” 

Vader looked at the screen again, studying the desolate snowy landscape. “Where is this?” 

“The Hoth system, my Lord,” the tech officer supplied. 

“Hoth,” Vader muttered. “Admiral, ready the fleet, and set course for the Hoth system. General, prepare your troops for the invasion.” 

“Right away, my Lord,” they replied, before scurrying off. 

Vader looked at the screen again. They had them now, and this time— this time Scott Skywalker would  _ not _ escape.  

***

The entire base was a mess of organized chaos. 

Tech officers were running everywhere, preparing the fighter ships for the ground battle. Equipment, data, supplies— everything— was being loaded onto transports. The important politicians on site and the non-combatant Rebellion leaders and workers were being herded onto the transports as well, as orders were barked over the loudspeakers into the large hangar. Droids zipped from ships to transports, carrying messages and orders and supplies. This base had taken almost three standard months to build and stock, and now it was being taken down in less than an hour. Everything was a mess. 

Stiles and Scott seemed to be impervious to this. 

“Okay, Chewie, try it now!” Stiles called, standing on the roof of the Falcon, messing with a tangle of wires. Chewie howled from the cockpit, flicking a switch on. Immediately, sparks and smoke burst from the opened panel of the Falcon, and Stiles flailed backwards. “Shut it off,  _ shut it off!”  _ he cried, as Chewie howled in dismay. 

“Yeah, you definitely don't need to bring her to a real repair bay,” Scott said sarcastically, sitting on a crate next to the Falcon's boarding ramp and grinning up at his best friend. 

“Whatever,” Stiles mumbled, pulling the wires apart and slamming the hatch closed. He scaled down the ladder propped against his ship until he was standing next to Scott. _ “I’m _ supposed to be the sarcastic one in this relationship, Scotty.” He eyed Scott's orange fighter pilot suit. “Shouldn't you be somewhere? Raising morale, inspiring your troops, all that?” 

Scott rolled his eyes, but his grin was still wide. “The Empire's fleet just came out of light speed, but we have the energy fields up at full strength. They won't be able to fire through, so they'll have to try a ground assault. My squadron's staying behind for that. I have time.” He glanced at his friend. “And you're leaving. I wanted to spend time with you, before you go.” He paused. “Where are you going, anyway?” 

Stiles shrugged, glancing down the hangar. “Back to Jackson on Tatooine, I guess. I have the money I originally owed him from running commissions for the Rebellion, but I know he'll be so mad at this point that that won't cut it.” He looked back at Scott. “Guess I'll just have to talk my way out of it.” 

Scott grinned. “Yeah, because you're really good at that.”

“Well, it’s worth a shot,” Stiles replied. 

“Have you said goodbye to Lydia yet?” Scott asked innocently. 

Stiles made a face. “No.” 

“Are you going to?” Scott inquired. 

“I don't know,” Stiles said, glancing down the hangar and past Scott again. Scott looked over his shoulder, and saw where Stiles was looking— Lydia was ordering crewmen around, helping the evacuation process. 

“She’s really mad at me,” Stiles mumbled. “I keep trying to make her see I’m doing this for her, but…” Stiles shook his head. “I don’t know. It’s probably best to just let her be anyways. She’s spent the past three days  _ screaming _ at me every chance she gets. She probably doesn’t want anything to do with me.” 

“What about your ten year plan?” Scott asked jokingly, referencing one of the first real conversations they'd had, years ago on their way back from escaping the Death Star. 

Stiles snorted. “Yeah, that definitely has to be extended to fifteen.” He looked at Scott, pointing an accusatory finger at his friend. “You know, I’m seriously starting to doubt your werewolf-y powers. If she does like me, she's doing a really kriffing good job of hiding it, ” he huffed in frustration, shaking his head. 

“You told me she said that she couldn’t keep going without you,” Scott interjected. 

“Yeah, but she doesn’t remember saying it,” Stiles mumbled. “She says she doesn’t remember anything after getting shot.” 

Scott laughed. “She’ll get there, Stiles,” he said, a grin on his face. 

“If you say so,” Stiles grumbled, looking at Lydia across the hangar again. 

“All Omega Squadron pilots, to your fighters,” the General's voice sounded over the speakers in the hangar. “Prepare for ground assault.” 

“That's my cue,” Scott said, standing up. He looked at his best friend. “Good luck. And be safe, okay?” 

“You too,” Stiles said, pulling Scott into a hug, and clapping him on the back. “May the Force be with you.” 

Chewie came down the Falcon's ramp as Scott and Stiles pulled away. “Take care of yourself, Chewie,” Scott said as the wookiee walked up to them and pulled Scott into a very furry hug. Chewie growled a reply, and while Scott didn't understand much Shyriiwook, he knew Chewie had said the same. 

“I'll see you, Stiles,” Scott said, before finally turning and walking towards his fighter. 

***

By the look on General Cross's face, Vader could tell she did  _ not  _ have good news.

The  _ one _ time Vader left the commanders alone, trusting that they could do something right, for once, and within ten minutes Cross showed up with  _ that _ look on her face. Turning in the chair to face her, Vader opened the room with a sweep of a hand, utilizing the Force to reveal Cross behind the door, evidently trying to act more confident that she felt.  

“What is it?” Vader demanded. She swallowed nervously before squaring her shoulders. 

“My Lord, the fleet has moved out of light speed and located the rebels on a section of the sixth planet in the Hoth system, but there's an energy field protecting this section. The field is too strong and will block any of our bombardments.” 

Vader sighed. Apparently, the fleet and their commanders  _ lived _ to disappoint everyone.

“The Rebels know we're coming,” Vader growled. “Admiral Brunski took the fleet out of light speed too close to the system.” 

Cross stuttered. “He— he believed a surprise attack would be most effective, my—” 

“He's as clumsy as he is stupid,” Vader interrupted. “General, prepare your troops for a surface attack.” 

“Yes, my lord,” she said, scurrying quickly from the room. 

As soon as she had gone, Vader turned to the holoscreen on the far wall, turning in the chair. Pressing a button, the command center appeared on the screen.

“Lord Vader,” Admiral Brunski said, walking into view. “The fleet has moved out of light speed, and we're preparing to—” Brunski stopped speaking, his hands flying to his neck, grasping at the unseen Force that was choking the life from him.

Captain Fenris stood behind Brunski, watching in horrified silence. Vader had  _ had _ it with these useless commanders, and figured they should know the consequences for letting the Empire down. 

“You have failed me for the last time, Admiral,” Vader informed Brunski, before turning to Captain Fenris. “Fenris, prepare to land the fleet beyond the energy field and launch a ground attack. You are in command now, Admiral,” Vader finished, glancing at Fenris's scared face. “Do  _ not _ fail me.” 

“Of course not, my Lord,” Fenris said, before walking off screen. 

Vader released the Force-choke as Brunski fell to the ground, dead. 

***

“All troop carriers will assemble at the north entrance,” Lydia informed the fighter pilots, who stood around her in a circle. They left a clearing about three meters wide around her, and she walked the perimeter of the circle. She was at least a foot shorter than every pilot here, but they all listened to her with rapt attention. “The heavy transports can leave as soon as they're loaded. Only two fighter escorts per transport. The energy field can only be opened for a short time, so you have to stay close to your transports.” 

“Only two fighters against a star destroyer?” One pilot asked incredulously. 

“The ion cannon will fire before, to make sure any enemy ships are out of your flight path,” Lydia responded. “Once you're past enemy ships, proceed directly to the rendezvous point. Understood?” 

Lydia scanned the faces of the pilots, all watching her and nodding in accordance. “Good luck,” she finished. “And may the Force be with you.” 

“Princess!” someone called as the troops surrounding her broke up, heading for their fighters. Lydia managed to resist the urge to roll her eyes. No one in the Rebellion ever seemed to want to address her with her  _ actual _ title, which was Commander. Everyone simply called her Princess, instead. 

Except for Scott— she'd let on once how much it drove her insane that no one would call her by her real title, and he made a show out of  _ always _ addressing her as Commander Organa. 

Stars, she was going to miss him. 

She was going to miss Stiles too— but he had pettily refused to say goodbye to her, so she was pretending she  _ wouldn't _ miss him, and that his desertion wasn't bothering her. 

It wasn't going very well. 

“Yes?” she said, turning to the officer who'd called her. 

“The General needs you in Command,” the officer reported. “They're ready to send off the first transport.” 

“Of course. Thank you, officer.” The officer nodded her head in acknowledgement, before hurrying off to somewhere else on the base. 

Lydia made her way down the corridors, fighting against the flow of people hauling supplies and equipment to the transports. Finally she made it into commands. No one here was going anywhere soon, as commanders and officers monitored computers, tracked the approaching Imperial Fleet, and made announcements to the rest of the base over the loudspeakers. 

“General?” Lydia said, approaching Morell. She was bent over a monitor, watching the Imperial Star Destroyers draw closer. 

“They're in range,” Morell responded.

“Let's send out the first transport,” Lydia replied. Morell clicked on her comms to the artillery unit outside. 

“Prepare to fire the ion cannon,” she ordered, while Lydia called over the base loudspeakers, “First transport, prepare for takeoff.” 

“Fire,” Morell ordered, as Lydia told the transport to leave. They watched on the screen with bated breath as the Imperials drew closer. 

“They're hit!” The fighter escort reported. “Star Destroyer's power is knocked out. We should be clear.” 

Lydia held her breath until the captain of the transport came over comms. “We're clear! Proceeding to rendezvous point now.” 

Lydia smiled, as did Morell. “The first transport is away,” Morell reported over the loudspeakers. 

“One down,” Lydia said. “Thirty-one to go.” 

***

Morell's voice echoed over the loudspeakers in the hangar, reporting that the first transport was safely out of the Empire's range. Scott could hear instructions being issued for the rest of the transports, but he continued on through the chaotic crowd, fighting his way over to his fighter ship. His gunner Kyle was already climbing up into the back seat of the cruiser. 

Scott started up the ladder too, nodding at the other pilots of Omega Squadron around him. They'd been assigned the fighter ships, while the other squadrons had been divided against fighting the battle on the ground and escorting the transports through enemy airspace. 

“Hey, Scott,” Kyle said, glancing up from the gunman's controls. “How are you feeling?” Stories of Scott's adventure overnight in the freezing cold had spread like wildfire. 

“Ready to take on the Empire,” Scott responded, grinning. 

Kyle grinned back. “I know what you mean. I'm just glad we didn't get assigned to ground assault.” 

Scott laughed. He definitely didn't envy the soldiers down in the snowy trenches in front of the power generators, armed with cannons and probably freezing half to death. 

Scott pulled down the hood of the fighter ship, powering it up and directing it to the hangar opening, before soaring out over the snowy white banks. He didn't see anything coming yet— he tried to focus on his wolf powers, and his vision sharpened— he could just make out a few black blurs over the ridge— 

Zooming in on the ship's scope, Scott could see clearly what the smudges were— Imperial all-terrain armored transport walkers, nicknamed AT-AT for short. The rebels had encountered AT-ATs at a couple other bases, and they were horrible— heavily weaponized, with thick armor that resisted most blaster bolts, and almost ten meters tall, with big, heavy, clawlike feet. They resembled turtles on long legs, and the commanders sat in the head of them, where all the guns were. 

“Great,” Scott muttered to himself. Into the comms, he told his squadron, “AT-ATs are approaching. Be careful, those things are nasty.” 

The squadron flew closer to the Imperials, and the AT-ATs opened fire. The trenches fired back, but the AT-ATs plowed on, unfazed. 

“Come on,” Scott said. “Omega Squadron, attack pattern delta.” The fighters fell into position, circling around the walkers. They fired at the approaching AT-ATs, but nothing seemed to affect the thickly armored walkers. They fired back at the pilots, and one of the fighters went down in smoke. 

“Pull up,” Scott instructed his squadron. “Their armor's too strong. Try going for the legs, take them down with your harpoons and tow cables.” 

“Copy that,” Isaac said back, his voice scratchy over the comms. 

“Kyle, I'm going in,” Scott told his gunner, maneuvering in between two walkers. “Get ready to fire the tow cable.”

“Copy that,” he responded, nodding at Scott. The upcoming AT-AT fired at them, but Scott swerved to miss the blaster bolt. It just barely caught the back of the fighter. 

“I think they hit something,” Kyle said. “There's a malfunction in fire control.” 

“Can you fix it?” Scott asked desperately. “We have to try to take out this walker.” 

“Yeah, I can switch it to auxiliary,” Kyle said, pressing buttons. “Wait— Agh!” 

Scott's seat shook as something in the back exploded. 

“Kyle?” Scott yelped, briefly turning around to look at his gunner. Kyle's head was on the smoking control panel, his eyes open and glassy. 

“Kriff,” Scott muttered, utilizing Stiles's favorite curse word as he pulled up from his assault. With no gunner, he couldn't make the pass. 

“Isaac, my gunner's down,” he said into the comms. “Make a pass at this walker; try to take it down by the legs.” 

“On it,” he responded, diving down to below the body of the walker, circling its legs. 

“Fire your harpoon now!” Scott instructed. The long cable soared from the back of the fighter, latching on to the AT-AT's back leg. He flew around its legs quickly and tightly, encircling all four in the wire. “Okay, detach!” Scott told him, and he released the end of the cable, soaring above the walker and out of shooting range. The AT-AT tried to take another step, but it couldn't move its legs at all, and unable to find a footing, crumpled over forward, exploding loudly as it hit the snowy ground. 

“Great job!” Scott exclaimed into the comms. “Now, if we could just do that to the rest of them...” 

***

“They're gaining, General,” Lydia said, watching the battle from command while trying to direct the rest of the evacuation. “They've got AT-ATs, and the TIE fighters will be coming in soon, I'm sure. We can't wait around any longer.” 

“I don't know if we can send two transports out at once, Princess,” Morell responded. “We won't be able to protect them as well.” 

“It's risky,” Lydia agreed, “but if we wait much longer, those Imperial walkers will take out the shield generators, and the Star Destroyers will open fire on us. We have to try now, while we still have the advantage off-planet.” 

The icy ceilings began to quake, small chunks of snow raining down on them, as if to illustrate the impending annihilation. 

Morell sighed. “Okay. I'll order off the transports. You give the signal for all remaining ground staff to evacuate, okay?” 

“Okay,” Lydia said, picking up her comms. She could see from the monitor in front of her, the X-Wings were already being prepared and sent out for the fighter pilots to take off in after the ground battle— their weaponized land speeders wouldn't last a minute in space. The doors to command slid open, and C-3PO shuffled in, making a beeline for Lydia. 

“Artoo has just taken Master Scott's X-Wing out,” Threepio informed her. “Oh, I do hope they're alright.” 

“Me too, Threepio,” Lydia said tiredly, turning back to her control computers. “Me too.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Happy first day of Christmas season!! (Poor Thanksgiving. Forever the forgotten middle child.) 
> 
> So, I've been thinking. (And this is TOTALLY dependent on my ability to finish the ROTJ rewriting, but I've had a lot of inspiration for that lately.) This story is longer than ANH-- I think it's 18 chapters total. I was considering posting maybe twice a week to speed up the process-- what do you guys think of that? Should I speed it up or just keep it as is? 
> 
> Anyways, I hope you enjoy this chapter. I think... one more until the onslaught of Stydia? Start getting ready, because it's coming. 
> 
> I would love to know what you think! As always, I'm stilesssolo on tumblr and twitter. Thanks for reading!! :)

Scott could already see there was no good ending to this battle. 

The Imperial walkers were gaining, some only a hundred meters from the trenches. Their deadly blaster bolts took out a whole row of rebel cannons, and sent the soldiers operating them scrambling from the trenches. 

“Emily, can you do a pass with your harpoon?” Scott asked over comms. “If we can take down that front walker, we can buy the ground soldiers some time.” 

“I'm on it,” she responded, swooping down to fly low next to Scott. 

“Watch out for the crossfire,” Scott warned as they weaved in between the blaster bolts fired from both the rebel cannons and the AT-ATs. 

“Get ready with that harpoon,” Scott instructed her. “Aim right for its legs.” 

“Okay,” her voice came back, fuzzy. “Wait— no— I'm hit!” she cried, before the line ended in static. Scott looked over, panicked, to see that Emily's fighter had been shot down, and was now a smoldering pile of scrap metal on the snow. 

Scott was so distracted by her crashed speeder that he didn't even notice the blaster bolt headed straight for him. 

It caught the front of the speeder, immediately shorting out all the power and making the control panel smoke and spark. Luckily, as he was not that far from the ground, the speeder slid to a stop through the snow. Unluckily, he landed right below an AT-AT, and its back foot was poised to step right on him. 

Scott threw open the top of the speeder violently, jumping out and rolling down the snowbank and away from the AT-AT's feet. Its rear one came down right on top of the crashed speeder, squishing it completely flat. 

He stood frozen in the snow for a moment, directly under the belly of the walker, until he saw a hatch on the underside. Wrestling with the grappling hook on his belt, he shot it up and attached it to the underbelly of the AT-AT, retracting the cord until he was dangling next to the hatch. He whipped out his lightsaber, neatly slicing through the locked metal handle, and the hatch fell open. He grabbed a thermal detonator from his belt pouch, hit the button on top, and tossed it into the bowels of the walker. He detached his cord, falling deep into the soft snow, before hurriedly running out of range of the AT-AT. It blew a few seconds later, a spectacular display of fire and ash and charred metal against the white snowbanks and pale blue sky. 

***

“Chewie, you almost ready?” Stiles asked, glancing at his first mate, who was finishing up the last section of repairs. Chewie growled in confirmation. 

“Captain Solo!” an officer called, approaching the Falcon. Stiles turned, placing the last crate of supplies on the Falcon's loading ramp. 

“What?” Stiles asked. “I'm cleared to go with the next transport, I checked.” 

“Captain, the General needs your help,” the officer replied. 

Stiles groaned. “What  _ now?  _ And for the record— I'm not officially a part of this organization any more. I quit. So I don't  _ technically _ have to do anything.” 

“Captain, it's the Princess,” the officer said, and Stiles froze. “She won't leave command. The General thought you might be able to reason with her.”

“For the love of gods, Lydia,” Stiles muttered. He turned to the officer. “Okay. I'll see what I can do.” 

The snowy passages Stiles rushed through were starting to shake, cracks appearing in the icy ceiling as he raced towards command. The Imperials were here, and they were doing their best to make sure everyone in the base never got out. 

Every instinct Stiles had was telling him to  _ run, _ run right back to the Falcon and escape with the last transport, and never set foot on this icy planet again. But Lydia was still in command, and he knew she was dedicated to her duty to the Rebellion to the point where it was almost suicidal— if there was something she could be doing in command to help, she would stay there regardless of whether or not the base was collapsing around her. 

Chunks of ice were starting to fall from the ceiling as he turned the corner into the main south passageway. He was about ten meters away from the command center when he heard her scream. 

“Lydia?!” Stiles called, racing down the hallway and bursting into the room. Chunks of snow and ice were on the floor and the tables— the ceiling was evidently starting to give out. The room looked like it had been ransacked, with missing monitors and equipment that had been hurriedly packed onto transports. Lydia was standing next to one of the only remaining computers, that dumb protocol droid loitering behind her. There were chunks of ice on the floor next to her, which he guessed had caused her screams. She whipped around and fixed him with a death glare as soon as she heard him enter the room. 

“What are you still  _ doing _ here?” she snapped. “You got your clearance, you need to go!” 

“You too, your highnessness!” Stiles retorted. “You've gotta get out of here. The tunnels are collapsing, and the last transport leaves in a few minutes.” 

“I have things to do, Stiles,” she replied. “Stop worrying about me, and leave.” She spoke into her commlink, probably to a commander outside. “Send all troops in sector twelve to defend the fighter pilots. They're closing in.” 

“I'm not leaving without you, Princess,” Stiles insisted. “The Rebellion needs you alive, not crushed and turned into an icicle.” 

The cold look she was giving Stiles made him worry that  _ he _ might be the one turning into an icicle. 

“Lydia, Captain Solo is right,” Morell's voice suddenly spoke from her commlink. Lydia must have been on call with the general, who was probably safe on a transport already. “You need to leave,” Morell continued. “That transport isn't waiting for anyone.” 

“Your worship, I swear on the stars, I will pick you up and carry you from this room if I need to,” Stiles added. It wasn't an empty threat. He'd had to forcefully remove her before, when they evacuated their last base. She had  _ not _ liked being slung over his shoulder and carried to the Falcon. He had bruises on his back from her fists for two standard weeks. 

“Imperial troops have entered the base!” someone called over comms. 

Lydia glared at Stiles again. “I'm not leaving.” 

“Lydia, the last time the Imperials invaded somewhere you were, they captured you and tortured you,” Stiles reminded her. 

“They almost captured you too!” she retorted. 

“And we're both still alive. See?” he asked. “Teamwork. Now let's  _ go.”  _

“Please, princess, we must leave,” Threepio pleaded. 

“Go, Lydia,” Morell insisted. “There's one more transport in the north hangar.” 

Lydia sighed, defeated. “Fine. Let's go, Captain.” 

She turned back to the computer one last time. “Give the evacuation code signal,” she told Morell. “I'll see you at the base.” She threw one more icy look at Stiles before heading out into the passages, Stiles behind her. 

***

Scott wasn't on comms anymore, as he was separated from his fighter, but he could imagine what the message they were sending out was: retreat. 

Soldiers were leaping from the trenches, running back across the icy plain to the final military transport and the waiting flock of X-Wings. The AT-ATs were practically upon the rebel soldiers, shooting down fighter ships and cannons and soldiers alike. The closest AT-AT fired at the power generators, and they exploded in a gigantic burst of light and smoke. 

Scott was done. With the power generator gone, the energy shield would be down, and even more Imperial troops would be upon them in minutes. He wove through the huge feet of the AT-ATs, making his way to his waiting X-Wing, where Artoo was waiting for him. The rebel base was smoking from Imperial air raids, the snow blackened from soot. Scott hadn't seen the Millennium Falcon leave yet, he didn't think. As he ran to the rebels' side of the battlefield, he hoped nothing more than that his friends made it out okay. 

***

The tunnels of the base were shaking even more now, the cracks in the ceiling running deeper. A loud boom sounded as the tunnels shook violently, and a shower of ice chunks fell from the ceiling. Stiles pinned Lydia up against the wall, shielding her from the ice with his arms. Once the tunnels were steady again, she shoved him off and grabbed his hand, tugging him down a hall off the south passageway that led to the north side of the base.  

They were maybe fifteen meters from the north hangar when the ground shook and the ceiling started caving in. 

Lydia screamed, and Stiles tackled her to the ground, covering her tiny frame with his body. Ice rained down around them, as the air raid above continued. Finally, the tunnel stopped shaking, and Stiles looked up, making sure the falling ice was finished before helping Lydia up. 

“Are you okay?” he asked her, but she rushed past him to the hangar entrance, which had completely caved in. There was no way into it now. 

Stiles stared at the mountain of ice and snow as Lydia started to try to remove some of the chunks. “There isn't enough time,” Stiles stated, looking at the cave in. “The south passages are still open; I can get you out on the Falcon. She's in the south hangar.” 

Lydia glared at him. “If you think I'm going anywhere in that heap of scraps, you are sorely mistaken.” 

Stiles groaned. “I know you’re still mad at me, but don’t pretend that you won’t leave because of my  _ ship,  _ okay? You’ve flown on her before and been fine.” 

“Not when there’s an Imperial blockade waiting for us!” she retorted. Stiles snapped. 

“Morell lied, alright?” he told her, aggravated. “That transport  _ is _ waiting for you. And they need to leave  _ now  _ if they're gonna get out okay. So can you please not argue, for once in your life?” 

Lydia let out a loud groan.  _ “Fine!  _ Take me to your stupid ship.” 

Stiles grabbed the commlink on Lydia's wrist, knowing it was wired right to Morell. “General, the passage is caved in,” he reported, while Lydia tried to pull her arm from him. “Tell the last transport to leave; I'll get the princess out on the Falcon and meet you at the rendezvous point.” 

“Copy that,” Morell responded as Lydia finally succeeded in pulling her arm out of Stiles's grip. 

“Come on, your worshipfulness,” Stiles said, leading the way down the hall to the south hangar. They turned a corner off the passage, racing to the hangar, Threepio still trailing behind them. 

“Oh, good heavens, we'll be crushed for sure!” the droid cried, utterly distraught. 

“Shh,” Stiles suddenly said, cutting through Threepio's babblings. “Did you hear that?” 

“Yeah,” Lydia said, turning her head towards the passage they'd just exited. “Sounds like marching.” 

“Stormtroopers,” Stiles breathed, grabbing Lydia's hand and bolting down the hall. They turned a sharp corner, then another, Threepio trailing behind them, before the door to the hangar was in front of them. Lydia pounded the button, racing through the door and pulling Stiles with her. It slammed shut behind them. 

Stiles leaned against the door, momentarily catching his breath. The ceiling was starting to shake again. The Falcon was right in front of them, Chewie hollering at them to hurry up from the loading ramp. 

“Wait!” Lydia cried suddenly. “We forgot Threepio!” 

Stiles audibly groaned. “Do we  _ have _ to take him?” 

Lydia glared at him again, her green eyes fiery, before opening the door again. The droid was right on the other side, and gratefully shuffled through the opening. 

“The stormtroopers are right behind us!” he reported. Sure enough, their marching echoed down the hall. 

“Let's go!” Stiles cried, sprinting across the hangar and to the ramp. He made sure Lydia got on first, followed by Chewie. C-3PO was still shuffling across the hangar, as fast as his mechanical legs could carry him. 

“Hurry up, Goldenrod, or you're gonna become a permanent resident!” Stiles cried as the droid finally reached the loading ramp. The second he stepped foot onto it, Stiles brought the ramp up and raced for the cockpit. 

Chewie was already trying to get them under way, with Lydia hovering behind the captain's chair. The second Chewie saw Stiles, he growled in frustration at him. 

“What do you mean, it won't start?” Stiles said. He rushed out of the cockpit, Lydia following behind him. He flicked some switches on the main reactor panel, hoping it would trigger something. “How's that?” Stiles called to Chewie. Chewie's growled response hardly masked the sound of the failing engines. 

Lydia crossed her arms. “Would it help if I got out and pushed?” 

Stiles narrowed his eyes at her. “It might.” 

“Why don't you just get a new ship?” Lydia demanded. “One that doesn't fall apart every five seconds.”

“Hey!” Stiles said, pointing an accusatory finger at her. “I will never abandon this ship, you understand me?  _ Ever.”  _

“Captain Solo,” C-3PO cried, rushing into the room. “Might I suggest—” 

“No,” Stiles snapped, glaring at the robot. 

“It can wait,” Threepio said meekly, as Stiles rushed past him into the cockpit again. He flicked a switch above the doorway, before all the control lights promptly went out. Stiles groaned, hitting the control panel. The lights flickered back on. 

“We are never going to make it past that blockade,” Lydia snapped, storming into the cockpit. 

Stiles jumped into the captain's seat, pulling levers and flipping switches as he went. “We’ll see about that,” Stiles retorted. “And stop insulting my ship.” 

Stormtroopers flooded the hangar, but Stiles was quicker. He triggered the ship's guns from the control panel, blasting the troopers backwards. Chewie lumbered into the cockpit, still growling in dismay. 

“Come on!” Stiles snapped. Chewie growled back, sliding into the co captain’s seat. “Switch over,” Stiles ordered, still flicking switches. “Let's hope we don't have a burnout.” The engines roared to life,  _ finally.  _

“See?” Stiles insisted, turning to Lydia. 

She gave him a look. “Someday, you're going to be wrong, and I just hope I'm there to see it.” 

Stiles ignored this. “Punch it!” he told Chewie. The Falcon sped out of the hangar, soaring over the snowy expanse of Hoth and into the sky. 

***

Scott had just cleared the top of the snowbank when the Falcon soared over him, whipping up a trail of snow behind it as it climbed higher in the sky. Scott let out a sigh of relief, jogging down the steep drift and into the evacuation sight. 

Isaac and Harley were both finishing load stuff onto the final transport, while other pilots ran around and readied X-Wings and shuffled supplies. Ground soldiers were loading the last few usable cannons onto the transport. Artoo beeped excitedly from Scott's X-Wing at his master's appearance. 

“I'm fine Artoo, don't worry,” Scott reassured the little droid. He nodded at the ship. “Can you get her ready to go?”

“We'll see you at the rendezvous point, Scott,” Isaac called, getting into his own X-Wing. Scott climbed up into the cockpit of his, Artoo beeping nervously the whole time. 

“Don't worry, we're going,” Scott insisted. He flicked the switch to bring down the top, before taking the controls and steering the fighter into the sky. They sped out of Hoth's atmosphere, entering space right behind the retreating Imperial star destroyers. They seemed to have had enough fun decimating the entire rebel base. 

Artoo beeped behind Scott, letting him know that he couldn't input the rendezvous point as a destination. 

“I know,” Scott told the droid. “I want to keep it on manual for a while.” Artoo beeped back incredulously, and Scott laughed. “No, we're not going to the rendezvous point. We're going to the Dagobah system.” He paused briefly, Derek’s words playing on loop in his head. “I have to meet someone there.” 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all. Sorry this is late, I've got a fluids mechanics test tomorrow that is determined to be the death of me. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Lydia was  _ not _ having a good day. 

She was exhausted, frustrated, nervous, and hungry— not to mention, she was sharing a very small space with Stiles, which meant at some point he was going to try to address the whole reason he was leaving, and she was  _ so _ not in the mood for that talk right now. 

Yesterday morning— finding Scott and Stiles alive despite the snowstorm—seemed like _ years _ ago. 

Chewie growled, breaking Lydia out of her reverie. 

“I know, it's worse,” Stiles muttered in response, dodging fire from the TIE fighters chasing them. 

“What?” Lydia asked. “What could possibly be worse that this?” 

“In addition to the TIE fighters and the Imperial Star Destroyer behind us?” Stiles snarked. “The two Star Destroyers headed right for us.” 

_ “Seriously?”  _ Lydia cried. _ “Why _ does the universe hate us?” 

“Sir,  _ sir! _ ” Threepio cut in. “Might I suggest—” 

“No!” Stiles snapped. “Your Worship, shut him up or shut him down!” Lydia made a face, but Stiles was too busy flying to see. 

“Chewie, put up the deflector shields!” Stiles cried, dodging another blast. Chewie howled. “What do you mean, they're not working?” Stiles shook his head. “Fine, we can still outmaneuver them!” 

The Falcon spiraled away from the TIE fighters, weaving in between their blaster fire and zipping under the incoming star destroyers. The ship tailing them stopped blasting at them, for in its chase of the Falcon, it had almost hit the other Imperial ship. The Falcon raced away from the distracted Star Destroyers, soaring for open space. 

“Okay, let's make the jump to lightspeed,” Stiles muttered. Chewie growled in agreement. 

“But sir!” Threepio exclaimed again. Stiles continued to ignore him. 

Lydia looked out the window of the cockpit. The TIE fighters were gaining, and the Star Destroyers had sorted themselves out and were in pursuit again. 

“They're getting closer,” Lydia warned. 

“Yes, I'm aware of that, thank you,” Stiles snapped. “Not for long. Watch this.” 

Stiles flicked a switch, and the Falcon made a sputtering noise, not going anywhere.

“Watch what?” Lydia snapped back. 

“Sir, if I may say,” Threepio cut in, “I noticed that the hyperdrive motivator is damaged. It's impossible to go to light speed!” 

“Great!” Stiles cried. “Perfect.” He stood up. 

“Where are you going?” Lydia cried, looking at him. 

“I have to go fix the hyperdrive, or the Empire's gonna pummel us,” he said. “Chewie, come help. Lydia, you fly.” 

Lydia's jaw dropped.  _ “Me _ fly?” 

“Yes,  _ you _ fly,” Stiles said. “Scott's the better pilot, but I've seen you fly, and you're good at it too. Just avoid their blaster fire. Okay?” 

“No,  _ not _ okay!” she cried, but Stiles was already gone. “Stiles Solo, so help me gods, I'm going to kill you!” she hollered, before turning to the control panel and grabbing the controls. “Come on, Lydia,” she muttered under her breath. “You've run a Rebellion and resisted torture from the Empire. You can do this.” 

The TIE fighters were gaining, but Lydia ignored this. She weaved in and out of the blaster fire, focusing on avoiding that. A few bolts caught the side of the Falcon, making the ship shudder. 

“Princess Lydia,” Threepio said from the back of the cockpit, “I don't mean to be disrespectful, but this seems like an impossible escape. We could just surrender— the Empire may treat us fairly, which would anyway be much favorable to being blasted out here by the star destroyers—” 

“Threepio, you're not helping,” Lydia spat, gritting her teeth. She dodged another laser blast, but she was so focused on avoiding the TIE fighters behind her she almost didn't notice the asteroid field that was appearing around her. 

“Sith!” she cried, trying to dodge a smaller chunk of rock, but clipping it on the side. The Falcon shook again, and Lydia heard a muffled yelp of pain from Stiles somewhere in the ship. 

“Stiles, get up here!” she cried, dodging another asteroid. A minute later, he was rushing into the cockpit, his shirt untucked and engine grease on his hands. Chewbacca followed behind him. 

“What?” Stiles asked, before looking out the window and understanding. 

“Asteroids,” Lydia replied sarcastically, getting out of the pilot's seat and letting him take over again. Stiles expertly dodged the incoming rocks, but he seemed to be going deeper into the field. 

“Stiles, what are you doing?” Lydia asked cautiously. Chewie howled the same thing, though slightly less polite. Stiles didn't respond; instead, he continued forward. The asteroids were bigger now, and closer together. 

“You're not seriously  _ intentionally _ going into an asteroid field, are you?” Lydia asked, incredulous. 

“Well, the Empire would be crazy to follow us, right?” Stiles asked. Lydia glanced behind them— the star destroyers had indeed dropped off in the chase, but the TIE fighters were still in pursuit. 

“Captain Solo, the possibility of successfully navigating an asteroid field is approximately 3,720 to one!” C-3PO cried in dismay.

“Never tell me the odds!” Stiles snapped, glancing at the droid briefly. 

“You know, I'm with Threepio,” Lydia agreed. “You're going to get us killed!”

Stiles glared at her. “Hey, you're the one who said you wanted to be around when I made a mistake.” Lydia huffed in disbelief. “This could be it, princess.” 

One of the TIE fighters chasing them fired again, and the asteroid next to them exploded. Chewie howled, while Threepio cried out in dismay. 

“This is a terrible plan, and we're going to die,” Lydia sighed, rolling her eyes.

Stiles glanced at her. “Well, that's a little morbid for my liking, but I'm not gonna argue with the terrible plan part.” He glanced behind them at the TIE fighters still trailing them. “I'm going in closer to one of the big ones.” 

_ “Closer?” _ Threepio exclaimed. Lydia bit her tongue to keep from yelling at the droid. 

Stiles ignored the droid's protests, flying in closer to the surface of a larger asteroid ahead of them. Two of the TIE fighters were still on their tail— one must have crashed in the asteroid field. The Falcon skimmed the surface of the asteroid, before Stiles piloted her sideways into a narrow canyon. He banked a corner sharply, hardly slowing down, and Lydia's stomach dropped momentarily. She genuinely thought they were going to die. But Stiles rounded the corner fine— though the TIE fighters weren't as lucky. Both hurtled around the narrow corner before launching into the rocky wall and exploding. 

Stiles slowed down after the TIE fighters were gone, sighing in relief that they had temporarily evaded certain death.

“Okay,” Stiles mused. “We need somewhere to lay low... somewhere to make repairs...” His eyes lit up as he spotted something. “Right there! Yeah, that looks good...” 

“What looks good?” Lydia asked, scanning the surface of the asteroid. They were flying over a large crater, the floor of which was decorated with several gaping holes. The asteroid must have been the size of a small moon at least. 

“Here,” Stiles said, steering the ship into one of the holes on the floor of the crater. As they flew in, Lydia saw the hole was a cave entrance, and they now were flying through a cavern system. The cave was dark, and more of a long hallway than an actual cavern room, but the Empire wouldn't find them down here. Hiding out was their best option until the hyperdrive was fixed and they could reach the rendezvous point.  

Stiles landed the Falcon, and immediately started flicking switches. “We'll turn off everything but the auxiliary power; that way we won't show up on scans. Then we can focus on fixing the hyperdrive without worrying about the Imperials.” 

Lydia nodded in agreement. For once, Stiles's plan wasn't  _ completely _ terrible. 

“I'm almost afraid to ask, sir,” Threepio chimed in, “but does that include shutting  _ me _ down?” 

Stiles sighed. “No, unfortunately. I need you to talk to the Falcon, and find out what's wrong.” 

Lydia was about to chastise Stiles for being rude, but the Falcon lurched, and she lost her train of thought, grabbing at Chewie's chair to keep from falling over. 

“Excuse me, sir, but I believe this asteroid may be not entirely stable,” C-3PO pointed out. 

Stiles rolled his eyes dramatically. “Not entirely stable?” he said, the sarcasm heavy. “Wow, I had no idea. Thank you  _ so _ much for pointing that out.” He turned to his first mate. “Chewie, take the  _ professor _ into the back and plug him into the hyperdrive.” 

Chewie growled in agreement, grabbing Threepio by the arm and tugging him from the cockpit. “My word!” the droid exclaimed. “Sometimes I just don't  _ understand _ human beings...” 

Once they left, Lydia stood, ready to get to work on fixing this hunk of scraps. Stiles stood too, opening his mouth to say something, before the ship lurched violently again. Lydia lost her footing, stumbling backwards and landing directly in Stiles's arms. Her added weight and the shifting ship sent them both backwards into the captain's chair, Lydia in Stiles’ lap, his arms somehow ending up looped around her waist. She tried to ignore the warmth from his hands on her waist, the way his breath tickled her ear, and the pounding of her heart, which she was  _ sure _ he could feel against his chest. 

“Let go,” Lydia said automatically, but Stiles shushed her, looking out the cockpit window into the cave. His face was drawn into concentration, and one of his hands loosely came up to his mouth, telling her to be quiet. He seemed to be listening for something. 

Lydia let a moment pass, but when she heard nothing, she struggled to get out of his lap again. 

“Stiles,” she insisted again, and Stiles snapped out of his reverie. He looked down, and it seemed to finally register that Lydia was sitting in his lap. His body froze up, and Lydia turned to look at him. Their noses barely brushed, and Stiles's face turned bright red as he jerked back from the touch. 

“I—” she started to say, but she froze, because Stiles's amber eyes were locked on hers, and their faces were centimeters apart, and she didn't know what to do. She watched Stiles's eyes flick from her eyes to her lips, and she swore, he was getting closer— he definitely was getting closer; she could count every fleck in his whiskey eyes—

“Stiles, let go,” she said again, leaning away from him. His eyes widened, and he grabbed her waist, picking her up and placing her on her feet in front of him. 

“Sorry,” he said, eyes soft. 

Lydia was still confused as to her feelings regarding Stiles— since she didn’t want to have this talk right now, she decided acting mad at him still would probably overshadow the fact that she had almost just let him kiss her. Not that being mad was really  _ acting— _ she was still angry from their fight the other day, especially after this whole ordeal: finding her in the base and insisting on getting her to safety, like she couldn’t take care of herself. 

“It’s fine,” she said, averting her eyes, closing herself off. 

“Are you seriously  _ still _ mad at me?” he started, but she was  _ so _ not in the mood. Today had been a long enough day as it was, and she really did not want to relive their fight in the corridor. “For wanting you to be  _ safe? _ Sorry I don’t want you to  _ die,  _ Lydia— is that a crime?” 

“No,” Lydia snapped, cutting him off. “We are  _ not _ doing this right now.” 

“But—” he tried again, his expression getting angry, and she cut him off again. 

“We aren't having this discussion, Stiles,” she insisted, crossing her arms. “Not now, not ever.” 

Stiles waved his arms wildly, his eyes full of exasperation.  _ “Ever?  _ Lydia, for the love of kriffing  _ gods,  _ would you throw me a bone?” 

“Would you stop  _ screaming _ at me?” she retorted. He immediately silenced.  

“I'm sick of this,” he said, quieter, but the frustration in his voice was palpable. “When you get over your pride and agree to actually  _ hear me out,  _ then we'll talk.” 

Lydia's jaw dropped. Stiles scowled at her before turning and heading out of the cockpit. 

Regardless, that didn't change her fondness of avoiding confrontation at all costs. She most certainly did not plan on having that conversation with Stiles  _ anytime _ soon. 

***

Scott was a pretty good pilot, but even he wasn't sure that he could pull off this landing. 

“Can you see anything below, Artoo?” he asked, glancing at the navicomputer of his X-Wing. “I'm getting huge life readings, but no signs of any civilizations.” 

Dagobah was dark and misty, any light from its sun shielded by the heavy layer of fog in its atmosphere. Scott had figured the planet would be remote for a Jedi master to be hiding out on it, but he had at least figured there would be somewhere to land his ship. 

That definitely was not the case, as Artoo finished scanning the ground and reported his findings back to Scott. There was thick vegetation everywhere, and the ground below them was mostly swampland. Scott flew lower to the ground, spotting what looked like a small, sturdy island in the middle of the bog. He aimed for that, gently touching down on the piece of land. The moment his X-wing stopped moving, though, the ground below them shifted, and the ship lurched dangerously, the body of the ship sinking into the murky water, the nose hovering inches above the bog. 

“Quick, Artoo, get out!” Scott called, throwing up the top of the X-Wing and grabbing his supply box, before hopping out of the cockpit. The marshy ground squished under his boots, and he waded through the water to the solid land ahead, where dense trees grew on the shore. 

This planet was so strange. It was dark and quiet, swampy water and wetlands stretching everywhere, with thick jungle covering the patches of solid ground. Trees grew close together, their thick canopy blocking any sunlight that made its way through the heavy layer of fog in the sky. Ropey vines connected all the trees together, and thick foliage and fallen logs made the sturdy ground harder to navigate. Dense clouds of fog rolled off of the murky water. While this place looked absolutely uninhabitable, Scott could feel the hum of the Force inside him, stronger than it had ever been. He wasn't sure if it was the planet or the fact that a legendary Jedi Master supposedly lived here, but he was certain he was on the right planet. 

Artoo had exited the ship himself, coasting into the silty water to reach dry shore. “Careful,” Scott warned, and Artoo beeped back cheekily, continuing deeper into the water until it lapped over his domed top, finally only his extended periscope visible. Scott laughed at the droid, who continued navigating the water with ease. Scott's smile quickly disappeared, though, as a large fin broke the murky water right behind Artoo. 

“Look out!” Scott called, but it was too late. Artoo let out a mechanical scream, as the creature behind him dragged him under. Scott stood on the shore, dumbfounded, unsure what to do. He was debating whether or not to jump in the opaque water and try to find his droid when Artoo burst from the surface, screaming loudly. The thing that swallowed him must have spit him out, and Artoo soared from the surface of the water, over the swampland, before landing hard on the solid shore next to Scott. He immediately helped the droid into an upright position, wiping off the layer of muck covering him. Artoo beeped indignantly. 

“You're lucky you don't taste good,” Scott laughed, as the droid began rolling over the rough jungle floor. Scott followed behind him, trusting the droid to warn him if anything dangerous was ahead. 

They continued on through the jungle, though there seemed to be no difference in the landscape. Scott thought they must be walking in circles. He had no idea what time it was, as the sky gave no indication— he didn't even know if this planet  _ had _ an established time system— but he was exhausted from the battle and the flight over. As much as he really didn't want to sleep in the jungle, they didn't seem to have much of a choice. 

“Let's set up camp, Artoo,” Scott said, breaking at the start of a small clearing. Artoo beeped in accordance, stopping in the small circle of clear forest floor. Scott sat down on a fallen log, opening up his supply kit and pulling out rations for his dinner. He ate in silence, other than the occasional beep from Artoo as he scanned the surrounding areas, and surveyed the jungle around him. It didn't seem particularly habitable. Where would a Jedi Master possibly live on this planet for twenty years without getting eaten by a swamp creature or lost and stranded in the endless jungle? 

An alarmed beep from Artoo snapped Scott out of his ruminations. He looked up from his meager meal, scanning the jungle quickly for any approaching dangers. He stopped on two glowing orbs, maybe ten meters away, shining through the trees. 

_ Eyes _ . 

They weren't alone out here. 

Scott made to slowly stand up, but the eyes drew closer through the trees, until they were right on the edge of the clearing. Scott quietly packed up his supply box, ready to run if necessary. He had no idea what kind of wildlife was out here, but if the creatures in the swamp were anything to go off of, they probably weren't friendly. 

The creature stepped past the tree line of the clearing, and Scott froze. 

It was a  _ wolf _ . 

Scott had never seen a wolf in real life— they didn't live on Tatooine, and wildlife never wandered near the Rebel bases, there were too many sentients— but he'd seen them on holoscreens a few times, so there was no doubt in his mind that this was one. But this wolf felt different; it was bigger, more powerful looking, almost. It had a shiny black coat, huge paws with vicious looking claws, and a long snout that Scott was sure hid its razor sharp fangs. It didn't look like it was hunting him down— it wasn't crouched low, like it was stalking prey. It walked almost regally on all fours, and its eyes— its eyes were almost sentient, filled with wisdom and pain and conscious thought. It stepped completely into the clearing before stopping, its long tail swishing behind it, and Scott swore, it looked right into his eyes. 

He wasn't sure why, but all his fear disappeared, turned completely into fascination for the creature. The Force hummed around Scott, reverberated in his whole body. The wolf took a step closer, its huge paws rustling the leaves below them. 

“Uh,” Scott said cautiously, keeping eye contact with the wolf. He still wasn’t afraid, necessarily, but the power of this animal was a little overwhelming. If it wanted, it could pounce and probably snap his neck with minimal effort. But the wolf just drew closer again, and Artoo beeped, warning against the approaching creature. Scott held up a hand to the droid to quiet him, his eyes still locked with the wolf. Struck with an idea, he concentrated on the Force, making his eyes glow brilliant gold. 

The wolf stepped closer to him, its eyes boring into his. It cocked its head to the side, still staring right at him, then turned and walked out of the clearing. 

Scott sat back down, shaking his head at his ridiculousness. It  _ was _ just an animal— what had he been expecting? He glanced up to watch the creature leave, but it had paused, just outside of the clearing, its eyes trained on Scott again. 

Scott stood up, puzzled. He took a step closer to the animal, and it turned, walking a little farther into the trees, then paused and turned to watch him again. 

It wanted him to follow. 

Following a wild animal into a dark jungle probably wasn't the safest of moves, but considering where he currently was, alone on a planet at the mercy of the wildlife around him, it wasn't like he had many better options. “Come on, Artoo,” Scott said, beckoning to the droid and following the wolf into the dense jungle. 

The wolf led them back in the direction they'd come from, circling through the trees and pausing every now and then to make sure that Scott and Artoo were following. They walked for what seemed like forever, though Scott had no perception of time passing, as the sky stayed dark and misty. Finally they arrived in front of a small mud hut, low to the ground, with a few windows and a doorway cut out of the rough clay. Scott paused, walking ahead of the wolf towards the house, the animal pausing on the edge of the clearing. Scott hesitated in the doorway before walking into the squat building. He didn’t want to get his hopes up, but there didn’t seem to be any sign of other people on this planet. Could this be where Talia was? 

It was small and earthy on the inside, with a low domed ceiling and a large hearth on the opposite wall. Warm light from the flickering fire danced over a small kitchen table for one in the corner and a rustic bed in the other, though there was no sign of any Jedi Master here. 

Scott's stomach sank. She wasn't here. 

He turned back to the doorway, ready to leave, but paused at the sight of the wolf, its front paws resting on the threshold. 

“She's not here,” he told the wolf disappointedly, as if it could understand him, or would even know what he was talking about. He sighed, kicking at the earthy floor. “Now what am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to become a Jedi if I can't even find the person who's supposed to teach me?” The wolf remained motionless in the doorway, its eyes still trained on his. Scott rolled his eyes, feeling stupid and lost. “And why am I even talking to an animal? It's not like you can answer me back.” 

The wolf's eyes remained trained on his, unmoving, unblinking. It took another step closer to Scott, so he could see its face better in the light of the fire. And then, its eyes burned bright red. 

Scott's heartbeat stuttered. He remembered the first thing Derek had told him about his eyes— yellow meant he was untrained, and blue meant Derek was a trained Jedi Wolf, but red— red was rare. Red was only the color of very, very powerful wolves. 

Somehow, this wolf was Talia. He was sure. 

“Talia?” he whispered, keeping his eyes on the creature. It bowed its head, and when it straightened up, it was no longer a wolf. It was a woman. 

She had long, dark hair that fell over her shoulders, the same color as the wolf's coat. She held herself regally and with elegant poise, long, earthy colored robes hanging off her shoulders, exactly like the ones Derek had worn. Her eyes faded from bright red to a deep brown, and they were the same exact eyes the wolf had had. 

“I— how did you do that?” Scott asked, baffled. He was pretty sure Derek had told him that Jedi Wolves couldn't turn into actual wolves like their werewolf ancestors. 

“It's a trick  _ very _ few Jedi know how to do,” Talia said, and her voice was like velvet, smooth and powerful and warm. 

“I was wondering when you would show up here,” she continued, and Scott looked at her, puzzled. 

“You know who I am?”

She nodded, a ghost of a smile drifting over her face. Her eyes were so full of sadness and pain. Scott wondered how long it had been since she'd seen another person. How long since she'd last smiled. 

“Derek told me you'd be coming,” she said conversationally, moving farther into the home, oblivious to the fact that she had casually mentioned she'd been chatting with a dead person. 

“Uh,” Scott mumbled, not sure if he should follow her or not. “How did— Derek is—” 

“I know,” she said, turning from the large pot over the fire to him. “When someone is one with the Force, though, they never really leave us. I thought Derek had spoken to you?”

“Yeah, well,” Scott said, shuffling his feet awkwardly. “I was concussed and hypothermic, according to Lydia, so I thought I was hallucinating.” Talia momentarily froze at Lydia's name. Scott thought it strange that Talia seemed to recognize her— Lydia was pretty infamous, as the last princess of a dead planet, as well as one of the most wanted Rebel leaders by the Empire, but Scott couldn't imagine how news of her had reached this desolate, deserted planet. 

“Derek spent a lot of years alone on Tatooine,” Talia said. “In that time, he's learned how to communicate with us, even now that he's gone.” 

“Am I going to learn that?” Scott asked, trying not to sound too eager. “Derek taught me some things, and I'm okay with a lightsaber, but— there's so much more I want to learn.” 

“You'll learn,” Talia assured him. Artoo beeped his doubts from the doorway, and Talia laughed at the droid. “You certainly have a lot to learn. But first, I think you could use a good meal.”

Scott's stomach rumbled, unable to deny the promise of good food. Whatever Talia was stewing over the fire smelled good— a thousand times better than the rations he'd been subjected to for the past three years. 

“Food sounds great,” Scott said, moving to the table eagerly. Food first, and then—  _ then  _ he would learn to be a Jedi. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering when the onslaught of Stydia content in this story starts, the answer is NOW. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!!

Stiles had decided the only way to healthily deal with his frustration was to take it out on C-3PO. 

Honestly, the droid didn't really deserve it. But he was aggravated— with the Empire, with the Falcon, with  _ Lydia—  _ so he had reverted to acting like a twelve year old, and was yelling at a robot. 

“I must say,” Threepio mused, listening to the hyperdrive, “I'm not sure where your ship learned to communicate, but it has the strangest dialect.” 

“Well, can you  _ understand _ it?” Stiles asked sarcastically. “I thought you were fluent in over five gazillion forms of communication.” 

“Six million, sir,” Threepio corrected. “I believe it's saying that the negative power coupling has become polarized. It needs to be replaced.” 

Stiles made a face. He was not letting this droid think it knew his ship better than he did. “Of course it needs to be replaced,” Stiles retorted, turning away from Threepio. Chewie howled for assistance from the level above, where he was working on the hyperdrive. Stiles grabbed the tool he was requesting, walking over to the open hatch on the ceiling. “Here you go,” Stiles said, handing Chewbacca the tool. The wookiee's furry head appeared in the opening, and he growled in gratitude. 

“Oh, and Chewie?” Stiles said, lowering his voice to a mutter. “I think we better replace the negative power coupling.” Chewie nodded in agreement. 

“What do you want me to do?” Lydia's voice came suddenly from the doorway, and Stiles whipped around. Her arms were crossed over her chest, and she had an unamused expression on her face. Good to know their fight was bothering her as much as it was him. 

“Uh,” Stiles stuttered, as Chewie began laughing. Stiles glared, but the wookiee quickly backed away from the open hatch, disappearing from sight. He turned back to Lydia. “Uh, there are some valves in the circuitry bay that need welding, if you wanna do that.” 

She nodded her head, her face still stoic, before turning and heading for the circuitry bay. Stiles audibly sighed, banging his head against the wall next to him. 

Chewie's laughter echoed from the compartment above. 

***

After only a couple hours on this ship, Lydia was already feeling like a caged animal. 

Not that she didn’t like the Falcon. It was falling apart and a mess, and she’d admittedly teased Stiles about it frequently, but the ship was the only constant place she’d had for the past three years. While she used to agree reluctantly, back when Scott and Stiles were more acquaintances than friends, she would now always jump at the chance to fly a mission with them on the Falcon, because it was the closest thing to a home she had. (There was also the fact that anytime they docked at a real spaceport on a mission, Stiles would pay out of pocket to hook the ship up to a water line so that she could take two-hour, steaming hot showers on the ship.) 

But knowing the Empire was right outside scanning for them, and that they had no hyperdrive and no way to escape the Imperial Star Destroyers, left Lydia feeling cornered and desperate. Add in the fight she’d just had with Stiles, and this whole day was making her feel uneasy and on edge. 

Fixing the Falcon at least kept her hands and mind busy, she mused, after pulling off the welding goggles she had been wearing to repair those valves. She doubted that their purpose was critical to the repairs of the hyperdrive, but she appreciated that Stiles had offered her something to keep herself occupied. Despite how aggravated she was with him, he still knew her better than anyone else. 

She tried to turn the lever to reactivate them, but it was stuck— she couldn't get it to turn all the way. Sighing in frustration, she took a step back from the valves, surveying the mechanism again, before grabbing it and trying to force the lever around. 

“Hey,” Stiles’s voice echoed from the doorway, and Lydia jumped at his sudden appearance. “Need a hand?” he asked, sliding his hands over hers, his arms around her, trying to help her shift the lever back into place. She was so sick of him— his insistence that he needed to somehow be her savior, his refusal to drop the subject— not to mention his  _ stupid  _ smirk that made her heart stutter— that she shoved him aside ferociously. 

“Kest, Lydia, I’m just trying to help,” he defended, stepping back and throwing his hands up. She threw him an aggravated glare. 

“I don’t need your help” she spat back, finally getting the thing to click back into position, but catching her hand in the process. 

“Okay. Sorry,” he responded, glancing at her hand with a look of concern. She rolled her eyes and huffed at him, grasping her injured fingers in her other hand. 

“What do you want, Stiles?” she asked him, glaring again and trying to quell the gymnastics routine her insides were doing. She was probably being more hostile than he deserved, but she was scared and aggravated, and Stiles was giving her that  _ look _ that made her throw up all her walls. 

“I just—” He swallowed, avoiding eye contact. “I wanted to say I'm sorry. I shouldn’t have made the decision to leave without asking you what you thought first. You can take care of yourself. I know that,” he promised. “I just—” he looked her in the eyes now. “Everything’s been different since Ord Mantell. We were so close to losing you, Lydia. And that was really kriffing terrifying.” He looked away, suddenly unable to meet her eyes. “Since then, things have changed. I feel like you're avoiding me now, or that every time we talk, we just fight, and— I miss us, the way we were before. When we were friends.” 

Lydia's stomach swooped at his words, her heart fluttering at the sincerity in his gaze, but she couldn’t help grinning at him. “Stiles Solo, are you  _ apologizing _ to me?”

He smiled, a big, genuine grin full of happiness. “Maybe. I miss you, you know. You’re kind of my best friend.” 

She grinned too, more hesitantly. “You’re kind of my best friend too.” 

He smiled at her triumphantly. “See! You admit it. Sometimes you think I'm actually alright.” 

_ “Sometimes,”  _ she agreed, smirking. “When you're not acting like a scoundrel.” 

He gave her a look of feigned shock, a grin playing on his face. “Scoundrel?” he said, his eyebrows raised, and Lydia wondered how many times she had actually seen him smile like this, because  _ stars,  _ it just made her want to make him smile forever.  _ “Scoundrel?” _ He pried her injured hand out of her own fingers and took it in his own, his long fingers rubbing circles into her palm. Lydia glanced from their hands to his face, and saw his grin had faded. He was staring at her with something intense in his gaze. She found herself sinking into his amber eyes, in a trance from his calloused palm in hers. The joking tone of their conversation had shifted, and electricity arced through their connected hands. She had forgotten how comfortable Stiles’s hands were, how good they felt in her own. They had used to casually hold hands a lot— half the time Lydia didn’t even realize she was doing it until they already were holding hands— but since Ord Mantell, she’d been more careful with herself. As much as she wanted to be with Stiles, she was also terrified of her best friend figuring out about her newfound feelings for him. 

He'd suddenly gotten a lot closer to her, his amber eyes and  _ unfairly _ long lashes mere inches away. 

“Lydia,” he said, staring right into her eyes and whispering her name like a prayer, and for sith's sake, this man was going to be the death of her. “I— I just need you to understand, okay?” he asked. “I couldn’t live with myself if something else happened to you and it was my fault. That’s why I need to go pay off Jackson. It’s not because you can’t protect yourself, okay? I know you can. But sometimes things just  _ happen, _ and— I can’t let one of those things happen again and be because of me.” 

“I get it,” she said, glancing up at him, worrying her lip. His eyes widened in relief. “Because I’d do the same thing for you. If you got hurt when I could have saved you—” she shook her head, trailing off, too scared to finish her sentence.  _ I’d never forgive myself, _ she whispered in her mind.  _ I’d never forgive myself if I got you killed. _

“Things have been different, since then,” Stiles said, almost whispering. “Right? It’s not just me?” 

Lydia shook her head slowly, simultaneously terrified of this conversation, but wanting him to keep talking. 

“This— something  _ big _ happened between us, and we’ve just been— ignoring it,” Stiles said, glancing down, fiddling with her fingers. “But, Lydia—” he looked up, meeting her eyes again. “I— I don’t want to pressure you, or anything,” he started. “And you don’t have to answer. But since you were in the med center— You know how I feel about you, right?” he asked, and she could hear the unspoken question in his voice:  _ do you feel something too? _

Lydia’s heart pounded at the look in his eyes, imploring, pleading, so hopeful, and she wanted to tell him so bad, tell him that she was falling in love with him. But she was so scared: so scared of losing him, so scared of opening herself up to the sheer emotion building up inside her— something with Stiles wouldn’t be some fling. Something with Stiles would be it; she could tell, deep in her gut, that this boy was it. There was no coming back from this. No recovering. If she gave in, if she loved him fully, and openly, and then he went and left— she wasn’t sure she’d be able to recover again. As much as she wanted to answer, she was still too scarred and too scared. 

So she took the coward’s way out, and she made a joke. 

“Sorry, Stiles,” she said, looking right back into his eyes, and she could have sworn she saw his heart break. She gave him a little grin before finishing her sentence. “But I happen to like nice men.” 

Stiles grinned wider than she'd ever seen him smile, his body still drawing closer to hers. “I'm a nice man,” he said back, still grinning, their noses brushing. He was looking at her through his lashes— and for Sith's sake, she was melting into his amber eyes. She could see every golden fleck in his irises, every mole splayed across his cheek— and his eyes briefly flickered from where they were fixed to her eyes, down to her lips. 

“No, you're not,” she joked, smiling back. And before she could really think, before she could rationalize or talk herself out of it, she gave in to the desire that had been building for  _ months _ and kissed him. 

She felt Stiles freeze, his whole body tense, as he realized what was happening. Immediately, Lydia feared she’d made some horrible mistake; had greatly misinterpreted his words, and she tried to pull away. But that seemed to snap Stiles out of his trance, and he looped his arms around her, chasing after her lips, and Lydia sighed in contentment. Honestly, she was beginning to wonder why she had been fighting this for so long. Every thought she'd had slipped away: she forgot about the Empire, she forgot about the broken ship— she even forgot about the very large possibility of Stiles leaving in mere standard days. She forgot everything, because Stiles's lips were on hers, and nothing else seemed to really matter. It wasn't aggressive or powerful or anything she would expect from his biting, snarky exterior— it was soft, and warm, and gentle. They pulled apart a second later, their foreheads still together and their noses brushing, and when Lydia looked into his eyes, she didn't see triumph or cockiness or anything like that— she saw reverence. He was looking at her like she personally had hung the stars in the galaxy, and she couldn’t even recall the last time someone looked like that after kissing her. Probably never. 

As much as that terrified her, she decided: screw it. 

“I feel it too,” she breathed, answering his unspoken question, glancing at him through her lashes. She became acutely aware of his hand on the small of her back, and how she was able to feel its warmth, even through her snowsuit. 

He grinned at her with that heart stopping smile, still drinking her in, before Lydia couldn't take it anymore, leaning in and pressing her lips to his again. 

This second kiss was different— hungrier, and more powerful. Stiles’s hand moved to her cup her cheek, solid and warm, and she mirrored him, her thumb brushing his cheekbone as her fingers carded through his hair. He angled his mouth against hers, deepening the kiss, and Lydia almost swooned, his lips still warm and hungry against hers, and  _ stars _ , this man could kiss, Lydia thought, her weight half-supported by his arm circling her waist. She would happily stay like this forever.

***

Stiles couldn't believe this was actually happening. 

When he'd gone to check on Lydia, just to help (and to apologize, if he was being honest) he hadn't seen this coming— but she'd looked at him with those eyes, and suddenly he could see all the lust and want and adoration and  _ everything _ for her he'd been bottling up for what felt like centuries, since the moment he met her, probably— he saw it all reflected back in her eyes, and then they were getting closer, and closer, until there was no space between them, and now her hand was in his hair and her lips were molded against his and she was sighing into his mouth and he thought that if this continued any longer he'd probably combust, but he also  _ never wanted it to end _ — just wanted to stay here, forever, with Lydia pressed against the wall of the Falcon, while he tried to pour everything he'd ever felt for her into this single kiss—

But of course, their shining, stolen moment shattered— the door slid open, revealing C-3PO, who began tapping incessantly on Stiles's shoulder. 

“Sir, sir!” he exclaimed in his tinny voice. Stiles reluctantly tore himself away from Lydia's, fervently taking in her swollen lips, her normally porcelain cheeks, now stained pink, and her wide green eyes. 

“What?” Stiles snapped, turning to face C-3PO, Lydia still tangled in his arms.

“I've isolated the reverse power flux coupling!” the droid said, looking extremely pleased with itself. 

“Well  _ thank _ you,” Stiles replied sarcastically. He untangled his limbs from around Lydia and forcefully shoved the droid out the door, ignoring his reply of “You're perfectly welcome, sir.” He turned back to Lydia— but she was gone, disappeared through the other door into a different part of ship.

***

Vader swore that for the most powerful being in the galaxy, the Emperor had  _ horrible _ timing. 

“ _ What _ ?” Vader snarled at the cowering officer who had delivered the message, fear radiating off of the man in waves. 

“The— the Emperor has sent a holo, my Lord,” the officer repeated, quivering in his military uniform. Vader sighed in aggravation, turning away from the huge windows of the bridge, where the TIE fighters in pursuit of the Millennium Falcon were clearly visible, soaring directly into the asteroid field. Vader didn't care at all for the smuggler that flew that ship, but he  _ was _ an exceptional pilot.

“What does he want?” Vader asked. 

“He wants to speak to you, immediately.” 

Vader almost groaned, turning to Captain Valack, who was piloting the ship and leading the search.

“I'll be back soon, Captain. Do  _ not _ lose that ship again.” Valack nodded his head, gulping a little bit at the animosity behind the order. Vader stalked from the room, heading for the private chambers of the ship, where the holo of the Emperor was certainly waiting. 

Vader was right. The life-size, shadowy blue holo of the Emperor folded his hands as Vader entered, his face shrouded in the shadows of his dark hood. His long robes brushed the floor, and the holo flickered as they moved. 

“Lord Vader,” he said, his voice echoing around the dark room. 

“My Lord,” Vader responded, kneeling briefly in front of the Holo in respect. “What is it?” 

“Why are you chasing that Corellian freighter across the galaxy?” he asked, and Vader could sense the annoyance in his voice.

“The Princess and that smuggler are on that ship,” Vader said, aggravated at the Emperor’s lack of trust. “Those fools that escaped us on the Death Star, and again on Hoth. They're also the closest friends of Skywalker. If we want any chance of finding him, it would be with them.  _ You _ were the one who told me it was so important to find him.” 

“Can you not sense him through the Force?” the Emperor inquired.

Vader almost snarled in frustration. “No. Can  _ you?”  _

“Careful, Vader,” the Emperor said dangerously. “And no, I can’t either. I can sense he's alive, but he's shrouded in the Force. I agree, tracking down the Millennium Falcon is probably your best option for finding Skywalker.” 

“May I inquire  _ why _ it is so important for us to find this boy?” Vader asked. They had been hunting him on the Emperor's orders for the past three years, and while Vader could sense he was powerful, no one had ever given a reason beyond that. 

“This  _ boy,”  _ the Emperor spat, “is the last hope of the Rebellion. The last descendent of the Jedi. Without him, the Rebellion truly has no chance. But with him— they have hope. He’s very powerful already, but he has the potential to become even more powerful than you— even more powerful than  _ me,  _ if he's trained well.” 

“Who could train him, though?” Vader said. “There's no one left.” 

“Talia still lives,” the Emperor sneered. “Out in exile somewhere, I'm sure. I can't tell where, but I know she's alive.” 

Vader nodded, as if this was obvious. While some skills had become much more powerful with the dark side, Vader’s skills in sensing others through the Force had diminished since the end of the Jedi Pack. 

“This boy,” the Emperor continued, “can  _ not _ become a Jedi. However, he could be a powerful ally to us. If he were to turn to the dark side.” 

“He will join us, or he will die,” Vader offered. 

“Good,” the Emperor said, finally satisfied. There was still one more question, though, begging to be asked.

“Where did this boy come from?” Vader asked. “I ended the Jedi. It's impossible any of them survived. And even any newly born— my inquisitors hunt them down. How could one so powerful evade us?” 

“Really, Lord Vader, I thought you were smarter than that,” the Emperor said, condescension evident in his voice. “What is his  _ surname?” _

“Skywalker is not that uncommon of a surname,” Vader defended. 

“Regardless, you know who that boy is,” the Emperor continued. “And you know what Derek was called before he changed his name. Search your feelings.” Vader could feel it,  _ had _ felt it, had even thought about it when they had first learned the boy's name. Initially, Vader had thought it impossible— after looking for so long, coming up with nothing— Vader had thought he must be dead. How ironic that the boy the Emperor had them all chasing was the same— Derek really  _ had _ done a good job of hiding them— which, of course, begged the question— if Scott was the boy, where was the girl? 

But, if this boy really was a Skywalker— if he was as loyal to his friends as Vader had once been to— still even  _ thinking  _ of it was impossible without a sharp pain twisting in Vader’s gut, knowing what had happened, what had had to be done— maybe selfishness could be Scott's downfall as well. Maybe he would be so desperate to save his friends that he would do anything.  _ That,  _ Vader could exploit. 

“He has to join us,” the Emperor continued. “Because  _ that boy _ is the one of the prophecy. Not Derek Kenobi, like the Jedi once thought. Scott Skywalker is the one destined to end everything.” 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, since I'm the worst at updating, have TWO chapters tonight. 
> 
> I hope everyone had a nice Thanksgiving, if you celebrate it! Enjoy :)

Lydia's mind was a warzone. 

She was sitting in the cockpit of the Falcon, in the captain's chair, staring absentmindedly out the window. After what had just happened with Stiles, she didn't know what to think. So she was doing what she was best at— avoiding confrontation, and hyper-analyzing things. 

On the one hand, she was terrified of committing to anything simply because of everything she had lost. Nightmares of Alderaan, failed missions, tortured and murdered soldiers still haunted her at night. Everything she loved, everything she fought for, was always taken away, hurt, destroyed. Everyone on base knew her as Princess Lydia, with nerves of steel and more dedication than anyone else in the entire Rebellion, but her fearless façade masked the damage underneath. If she gave in— if she let her feelings for Stiles grow, and turn into something— she would inevitably lose him. Between the Empire, and the gangsters after him, and the fact that he made it pretty clear he was only here until she was safely delivered to the rendezvous point, losing him was a certainty. And she didn't think she could survive losing another thing she loved. She'd lost her planet, her family— for sith's sake, at this point she'd even lost Scott, off Gods knew where— Stiles was all she had left. And she couldn't risk losing the only thing she had left. 

On the other hand, she was so  _ sick _ of denying her feelings for him. He'd kissed her, and looked at her with those eyes, and something inside her had snapped. She knew what it was like to be with him, and it was  _ addictive _ . She wanted that all the time. And a part of her didn't care about the future, didn't care about the inevitability of him leaving her— that part just  _ wanted _ him, and wanted him now. 

So she sat in the cockpit, staring out the window into the cave beyond, the battle still raging in her head. 

Her train of thought was interrupted by a noise from outside the cockpit. 

Lydia's back tensed as she sat up, cautiously glancing out the window into the dark cave outside. She winced at the pain in her neck that came from moving it— she’d gotten pretty badly hit by falling ice on Hoth, and the muscles were sore and bruised. She didn't see anything outside. Was she just imagining things? 

Then something flopped onto the windshield, and she screamed, realizing she definitely had  _ not _ been imagining things. 

It was a creature of some sort, a suction cup like head attached to the window, a leathery body extending behind it. Lydia raced from the cockpit, dashing down the hallways until she slid to a stop in front of Stiles. He was working on welding something, goggles pulled down over his eyes. She wasn't sure if he heard her or not, but he didn't look up at her abrupt entrance. Chewie, who was hovering right over Stiles's shoulder, though, looked up and growled,  _ Are you alright?  _

“There's something out there,” Lydia informed them, and this seemed to catch Stiles's attention. He put down his tools, looking at her and pulling the welding goggles off. 

“Out where?” he asked. 

“In the cave,” Lydia said, nodding back towards the cockpit. 

Stiles stood up, wiping his engine grease covered hands on his pants. “Okay. I'm going out there.” 

Lydia's jaw dropped. _ “What?” _ she exclaimed. “We don't know what it is— you shouldn't—” 

“I just got this ship back together, okay?” Stiles retorted, grabbing an oxygen mask from a shelf next to him. “I'm not letting something tear her apart again.” 

Lydia groaned. “Fine. Then I'm going with you,” she said, snatching an oxygen mask as well. Chewie also grabbed one, growling in agreement with Lydia. 

The three of them headed for the loading ramp, leaving Threepio in the middle of the room alone. “I think it might be best if I stay here and guard the ship,” he said to their retreating backs. 

Stiles lowered the ramp, leading the other two down. He had a blaster in his hand, and Chewie was armed with his crossbow, so Lydia stayed behind them. Fog rolled off the bottom of the cave, and despite the fact that most of her skin was covered, Lydia could feel the humidity in the air. She took a cautious step off of the loading ramp, assessing the stability of the ground. While it was solid feeling, it wasn't hard— it was almost squishy. 

“The ground feels weird,” she said to Stiles, who nodded in agreement. “It doesn't feel like rock.” 

“There's a lot of moisture in here,” he said, glancing around. 

“I don't know,” Lydia said hesitantly. “I have a bad feeling about this.” She heard that fluttering sound again— the same one she had heard in the cockpit. 

“Listen,” she hissed, and Stiles nodded. He surveyed the cave, pulling out his blaster. Suddenly, a loud screeching sound echoed through the cavern, followed by a blaster bolt, and a thud. Stiles had shot whatever it was, and it had fallen to the ground, dead. 

Stiles walked over to the creature, toeing it with his boot. Lydia could see now it had long, leathery wings as well. “Mynocks,” Stiles said, stepping away from the creature. “Probably chewing on the power cables.” 

Lydia's brow furrowed. “Mynocks,” she mused, thinking she had definitely read something about them before. Something that felt important. 

“Yeah,” Stiles said. He had mistaken her musings for confusion. “Stupid parasites. They chew on power lines, drain the whole ship's electricity. They're a pain. Anytime you land on an asteroid, you have to deal with them.” 

She gave him a look. “I know what mynocks are, thanks.” He gave her a puzzled look in return. “What?” she demanded. “I read.” 

Stiles looked at Lydia, shrugging. “You can go back in, if you want. Chewie and I will clean them off.” 

“Okay,” she agreed reluctantly, heading back for the ramp. There was something about mynocks that she couldn't quite remember, though Lydia  _ knew _ it was important. It was right on the tip of her tongue—  _ what _ was it? 

“Woah!” Stiles cried out, as two of the creatures soared right over Lydia's head. She yelped and ducked down, while Stiles and Chewie shot them down. One of Stiles's blaster bolts missed its target, and hit the walls of the cave instead. 

The asteroid lurched violently, and Lydia stumbled, losing her footing. 

Suddenly, she remembered that thing about mynocks. 

“Oh,  _ sith,”  _ she whispered, moving closer to Stiles and grabbing his blaster. 

“What are you doing?” he asked, alarmed, though he still gave her the gun. 

“Testing a theory,” she said, shooting the floor of the cave. The asteroid lurched again, much more violently this time. 

“What did you do?” Stiles yelped, stumbling backwards. Lydia grabbed his shirt and pulled him towards the loading dock, Chewie following behind them. Lydia ignored Stiles's question, fighting her way on to the Falcon instead. 

“We need to go,  _ now!” _ she yelped, making sure all three of them were on board before raising the loading ramp. 

“Lydia, the Empire is still out there—” Stiles protested, but she just shoved him towards the cockpit. 

“I know,” she hissed. “But we have to get out of here,  _ now—  _ just trust me,  _ please!”  _

That shut Stiles up. He powered up the ship, taking off and flying them towards the cave opening. The opening was shrinking though— growing smaller and smaller with every passing second. 

“The cave is collapsing,” Stiles said, aghast. 

“This isn't a cave,” Lydia responded, as the Falcon squeezed between two stalagmites. They soared clear of the cave, doubling back over the crater. A gigantic, slug like creature was sticking out of the cave they'd just left, lunging at the Falcon with its huge mouth, its teeth snapping closed behind them. This much movement seemed to exhaust it, for it slunk back into the cave after that, giving up on its prey. 

“What the  _ hell  _ was that?” Stiles yelped, watching as the creature retreated back into the cave. 

“An exogorth,” Lydia responded, still shaking a little bit. “They generally don't get that big— when they don't have room to split to reproduce, they just keep growing forever— they're silicon based, like mynocks, and they can both survive in vacuum— the mynocks tipped me off— they can live in an exogorth's gullet and share its meals—”  

Stiles looked at her like she had suddenly sprouted lekku. “Can you speak Basic, please?” he asked, glaring. She rolled her eyes. 

“A space slug, Stiles. We were in the stomach of a giant space slug.” 

“I thought those were just a myth!” he yelped. “I've been to my fair share of asteroid fields, and I've never seen one before.” 

“Yeah, well, evidently not a myth,” Lydia retorted, sinking into the chair behind Stiles. The panic from the near-death encounter with the exogorth had quelled a little, but then she remembered the Imperial fleet was still out here, searching for them. 

Stiles turned back to the controls, navigating through the asteroid field. “Kriffing hell.” 

Lydia snorted. “Tell me about it.” 

***

Scott had never been this exhausted in his life. 

He'd thought running moisture vaporators and hauling water back and forth on Tatooine in scorching heat was bad, it was  _ nothing _ compared to this. Talia had him running, climbing, fighting,  _ moving _ non-stop, the moisture in the air clinging to his sticky skin, his hair dripping with sweat. She'd been drilling him in both hand-to-hand and lightsaber combat for days, making him spar with her, sometimes as a person, sometimes as a wolf. She had a green lightsaber of her own, and Scott had thought Derek had been good with a blade, the one time he'd seen him fight Vader with his saber. Derek had nothing on Talia. She fought wickedly, like the lightsaber was an extension of her arm, and she moved with purpose and without hesitancy. If she had been trying to actually harm Scott, he would be long gone, even with his supposed accelerated healing. 

That reminded him. 

“Master Talia,” he said, breaking from their fight, hunched over and panting. He'd quickly learned he was to address her as  _ Master, _ not just Talia. She stood above him, her back straight, not a hair out of place or a sheen of sweat on her skin, despite her long robes. Scott had long shed his fighter pilot suit, settling for the thin tank top and pants underneath, since this planet was as hot as Tatooine and ten times as muggy. 

“Yes?” she asked, regarding him. Her eyes still glowed red, the silver rings around her irises shining. She blinked, and they faded back to their normal deep brown. 

“I know I have... powers,” he started awkwardly. “Like, I can see better with my wolf eyes, and I have better reflexes and stuff. I just... is there more I can do? Lydia thought I maybe had special healing powers, since I caught hypothermia and was concussed and only needed a day in bacta.” 

“You do heal faster,” she said, nodding her head. “Cuts and scratches never last more than a couple minutes. Bigger injuries take longer, but the moment you're hurt, you begin to heal, so you can continue fighting.” 

Scott nodded. That made sense. Even when he was little, racing in speeders through canyons and shooting down womp rats with his friends, whenever he'd get banged up his cuts would heal faster. His mom had brushed it off, but then again she'd probably known and not wanted to tell a reckless ten-year-old he was almost indestructible. 

“Though, if you learn how to fight properly, you won't need to heal,” she said, a sly smile on her face. Scott took that as his cue to continue his fighting lessons, but Talia continued. “Your heightened sense of smell, too, can sense not only physical scents, but emotions as well.” 

_ “Emotions?” _ Scott asked, flabbergasted. 

Talia nodded. “Yes. Anger, fear, happiness, sadness, attraction—” 

“Wait, I can smell attraction?” Scott butted in.  _ “That's _ why Stiles and Lydia always smell weird when they’re together, that makes  _ so _ much sense—” He broke off, glancing at Talia, who looked slightly confused. “My two friends,” he explained. “They're hopelessly in love with each other, but neither one of them will admit it.” 

“I see,” Talia said. “Now, how about we go back to training?” 

“Okay,” Scott agreed. He grinned. “When do I learn how to turn into a wolf?” he asked jokingly. Talia outrighted laughed at that. 

“It's a talent very,  _ very _ few Jedi possess,” she said. “Even at the height of the Jedi Order, I was the only one who could.” 

Scott had figured as much. “I'll stick with the glowing eyes, then.” 

“You have claws, too,” Talia said, unfurling her hand quickly, a set of claws sprouting from her fingertips where her fingernails were.  ”We don't often use them, but if you ever lose your lightsaber, they come in handy.” 

“How do you do that?” Scott asked in wonder. 

“There are two different aspects of your abilities,” Talia explained. “There are your wolf capabilities, and then your Force capabilities. It's much easier to trigger your wolf capabilities— like your fangs and claws— when you are in tune with the Force. Don't think about it,” she advised. “When you feel the Force flowing through you, just picture your claws, and they'll be there.” 

Scott closed his eyes, focusing on his emotions tied to the Force, the way Derek had taught him. He thought of his mom and dad, Lydia's planet, Derek, everyone the Empire had taken. He tried to forget his anger, focus on his compassion for others who had been hurt, but in the midst of this war, it was becoming harder and harder to push the anger from his mind. He shifted his focus, and thought of his father, the brave Jedi Wolf that Scott hoped to be someday. His biological mother that he had never known, a casualty of the war. His parents were his anchor. 

When he opened his eyes, he could feel them burning bright gold. He thought of Talia's claws, imagined his hand unfurling, claws sprouting from his fingertips. He opened his hand, and there they were— a set of razorlike claws, just like the ones Talia had. He looked at his hand in wonder, opening his mouth in shock. He could feel long canine teeth growing in between his normal ones, and he almost bit his lip when he closed his mouth. 

“Stiles is going to think this is hilarious,” Scott said, though it sounded somewhat garbled with his fangs. Then he remembered Stiles wasn't back at the rendezvous point, he was on the other side of the galaxy, hopefully paying off his debt to that gangster. Scott knew it was classified information, but he'd given Stiles the coordinates for the rendezvous point, in case he decided to come back after sorting everything out with Jackson. With the way his best friend had left things with Lydia, Scott had a feeling he'd be back. 

“I think you've learned enough about combat for now,” Talia told him. “Saber skills are something you always have to work on, but I want to teach you more things that are Force-based. How you can manipulate things around you using the Force.” 

“Like Jedi mind tricks?” Scott asked, thinking back to when Derek had made those Stormtroopers in Mos Eisley let them and their wanted droids go so easily. 

“Not Jedi mind tricks,” Talia said sternly. “Yes, the Force can be used to manipulate the weak-minded, but it should only be used that way in dire situations. Emergencies. It is not something to be taken lightly, controlling another person's thoughts and decisions.” 

Scott nodded his head seriously, regarding Talia. She was so in tune with the Force, so knowledgeable and wise about everything. He wanted to know it all, craved the knowledge hidden in her deep, wise eyes like nothing else. The entire Jedi way fascinated him, and he hoped he was making them all proud, wherever they were. Derek, his father, all the Jedi before him. 

“I'll teach you how to control your surroundings, though,” she said. “You can manipulate things around you, like this.” She held out her hand, slowly lifting it up to shoulder level. Scott didn't notice anything at first, but then he noticed it— a small rock, levitating off the ground, following the movement of her hand. 

“It's not as easy as it looks,” Talia promised, a small smirk on her face. 

“I know,” Scott assured her. “I did that once— pulled my lightsaber to me— and then I passed out.” 

She laughed. “Well, that's a start. Let's begin, then.” 


	8. Chapter 8

Vader was beyond sick of the Imperial pilots being completely and utterly incompetent. 

Obviously, flying in an asteroid field was difficult, but they were trained to be the best— Vader had half a mind to go out in a fighter and find the Millennium Falcon  _ alone _ at this point. 

It had been  _ hours _ since anyone had seen the freighter, so that was why they had put out a notice an hour ago for any bounty hunters in the surrounding area that Princess Lydia and Stiles Solo were here, and the Empire would pay substantial credits for their capture. As the princess already had an Imperial bounty on her head and Solo was also wanted by Jackson the Hutt, a crowd of them had flocked to Vader's star destroyer immediately. They were all gathered in the ship now, all sorts, from assassin droids to Gands to Trandoshans. Vader stood before them all, looking up and down the line. Kate Argent was at the end of the line, her Mandalorian helmet propped under her arm, and her blonde curls spilling over her armor. Vader didn't care for her poisonous smile and malicious eyes, but she was good at her job, and had earned her place as Jackson the Hutt's favorite bounty hunter. 

“Do you really think this is necessary, my lord?” Captain Valack said quietly. “I think the TIE fighter pilots will find them soon enough—” 

“Tell me, Captain, have any of them come anywhere close to capturing them yet?” Vader snapped. Valack shut his mouth quickly. “We are  _ not _ letting these rebels escape again. And seeing as our troops seem utterly  _ incapable _ of capturing them—” 

“My Lord,” an officer interrupted, appearing in the doorway, out of breath. “We just spotted them again. They're leaving the asteroid field.” 

“I told you,” Valack said quietly, glancing at Vader before leaving, returning to his post. Vader glared at his retreating back, hoping the man could feel the wrath directed at him. 

Vader glanced at the line of bounty hunters, all of them shifting uncomfortably, now that their prey was apparently captured. “Wait here,” Vader told them. “I'm sure my pilots will find some way of losing them, and your service will still be required.” 

Kate smirked, tossing her curls, and looked up from the large blaster in her hands to watch Vader retreat. 

***

Stiles was certain that the universe really,  _ really _ hated him. 

They had finally navigated clear of the asteroid field, luckily without encountering any TIE fighters or similar. But the moment they were clear of the rock, Imperial ships pounced. 

“Okay,” Stiles said, taking a deep breath. “Let's try this again.” Nodding to Chewie, he punched the controls for hyperspace, crossing his fingers. The hyperdrive sputtered and died again. 

_ “Seriously?”  _ Lydia cried in dismay. 

_ “What?”  _ Stiles said, bewildered. They had  _ fixed _ this. It was supposed to  _ work _ now! “It's not my fault,” he said, turning to Lydia. The Star Destroyers were still in pursuit behind them, along with a fleet of TIE fighters. 

“Evidently, it  _ is _ your fault, flyboy,” Lydia retorted, narrowing her eyes. She huffed and looked up towards the ceiling. “Gods, I would have been better off staying on Hoth.” 

That made Stiles angry. Surely being on the Falcon with him— though, obviously, not the most fun experience currently— couldn't be worse that being captured and tortured by Darth Vader and his goons again? 

He was going to get them out of this if it was the last thing he did. 

The ship shook as a blaster bolt caught the back. “Chewie, put up the rear deflector shields,” Stiles instructed, trying to evade the fire from the Star Destroyer.  _ They’re still not working,  _ Chewie howled in response. 

“Oh, my!” Threepio called. “One more direct hit to the rear and we're done for!” 

“Shut  _ up,  _ Goldenrod!” Stiles snapped. “Chewie?” he asked, glancing at his copilot. “Ready to do something really stupid?” 

Chewie howled in laughter, but Lydia was not as amused. “Stiles, what are you—” 

“Let's turn the ship around,” he told Chewie. “Assume attack position.” 

_ “Attack _ position?” Lydia asked, incredulous. “You're not seriously going up against that thing!” 

“Sir, the odds of surviving a direct attack on an Imperial Star destroyer are approximately—” 

“Shut up!” Lydia snapped at the droid, beating Stiles to the punch. 

“Put all power in the front deflector shields,” Stiles instructed Chewie. Chewie growled and nodded, flicking switches. Stiles piloted the Falcon closer towards the Star Destroyer, weaving through their blaster fire until they were directly on top of the ship. He sped past the bridge, before pulling to a quick stop, and latching the Falcon next to a large trap door, concealed on the tower behind the bridge. 

“What are you—” Lydia asked, puzzled. 

“Garbage chute,” Stiles supplied, nodding his head at the door on the wall next to them. He began flicking switches, turning off all the power. “If we shut everything down, they won't pick us up on their scans.” 

“Okay,” Lydia said, giving him a tiny smirk. “I'm somewhat impressed.” 

Stiles grinned back at her. That statement alone made this crazy expedition almost worth it. 

***

“Where did they go?” Captain Valack exclaimed, desperately searching the viewport for any sign of the Millennium Falcon. “They're too small to have a cloaking device— they must be somewhere—” 

“Captain Valack,” Vader said darkly. “Remind me again what you said about our troops being perfectly capable of capturing these rebels?” Valack looked up at his superior, terror evident in his eyes. “Because it seems that not only they, but also you, are completely incapable of capturing a  _ little Corellian freighter!”  _

Valack looked down in shame and fright. “I'm sorry, my Lord,” he apologized, unable to look Vader in the eye. 

“You have disappointed me for the last time, Captain,” Vader said, stretching out a hand and allowing the Force to constrict around the man's throat. He fell to his knees, his hands fighting the invisible force around his neck, sputtering for breath. 

“Tell the bounty hunters my offer still stands,” Vader informed an officer to the left. _ “I want that ship.”  _

***

“Captain Solo!” C-3PO exclaimed, still distraught that they were hiding  _ on _ an Imperial Star Destroyer. “You have gone too far this time!” Stiles was about to yell at the droid again before Chewie beat him to it, growling angrily. 

“No, Chewbacca, I will not be quiet, why won't anyone listen to me?” the droid cried in dismay. “Surrender is a perfectly acceptable option— the Empire might even be gracious towards us—” 

Stiles turned and glanced at Lydia, jerking his head towards Threepio. She nodded in understanding, reaching over and powering the droid down, cutting off his ramblings mid-sentence. 

“Thank you,” Stiles said. He glanced at the Imperial star destroyers around them. “Look, the fleet is breaking up.” He turned to his copilot. “Chewie, go stand by the manual release claw, okay? Wait for my order.” 

Chewie growled in agreement, before standing and leaving the cockpit. Now it was just him and Lydia. 

“So now what?” Lydia asked, leaning on the back of his chair and hanging over his shoulder. 

“Well, if they follow standard Imperial procedures, they'll dump their garbage before going into hyperspace,” Stiles responded. “And then we can detach, and just drift away.” 

Lydia nodded her head, considering his idea. “Well, as far as plans go... It's not  _ terrible.”  _

Stiles grinned. “Then we just have to find a safe port to land in to make repairs.” 

“Well,  _ that _ should be easy,” Lydia replied sarcastically. “We're in the middle of nowhere.” 

“No, we're in the Anoat system,” Stiles said, making a face at her.

“Yeah,” Lydia replied. “Hence, the middle of nowhere.” 

Stiles rolled his eyes. “You say that like  _ I'm _ the one who chose the location of the base,” he muttered, glancing at the navigation screen in front of him. A name caught his eye, and he scrunched his eyebrows together, debating. 

“Mahealani,” he muttered, but Lydia heard him. 

“Mahealani?” she asked. “Is that a planet? I've never heard of it.” 

Stiles shook his head. “No, it's a person. Danny Mahealani.” He shrugged. “He's an ex smuggler. Gambler. Hacker, too. He conned someone out of a mining colony a while back. Bespin— This must be it.” He looked at Lydia. “We were friends, a really long time ago.” 

She raised her eyebrows at him. “Can we trust him?” 

Stiles stared back at the screen. Gods, he hadn't seen Danny in years. 

“I don't know,” Stiles replied truthfully. “But he's got no love for the Empire, I know that.” He glanced at Lydia. “Bespin's pretty far, but this is probably our best shot. It'll take a few standard weeks to get there using the backup hyperdrive, but we should be able to make it. Anything farther and we'll run out of supplies.” 

Lydia sighed. “Okay. Let's do it.” 

Stiles nodded, before glancing out the window again. The fleet was evidently preparing for hyperspace. 

“Get ready, Chewie,” Stiles said into the comms unit on the dashboard. Chewie's growled response echoed through the tiny cockpit. 

“Okay… now!” Stiles ordered, as the garbage doors next to them swung open. Damaged ships, spare parts, and other debris floated out into the expanse of space. They felt the Falcon lurch, before detaching from the side of the star destroyer and floating out into space with the rest of the garbage. The Star Destroyers around them all entered hyperspace, leaving them completely and blissfully alone. 

“You do have your moments,” Lydia said, her hand on Stiles's shoulder, a small smile on her face. “Not many of them, but you do have them.” 

He turned to look at her, and didn't realize how close she had been— their noses brushed, and her wide green eyes were centimeters from his. Gods, he just wanted to kiss her again, especially after earlier— but she'd run off, and he didn't know how to react to that. Was she just messing with him, or did she really feel the same about him as he did about her? He'd thought when she'd kissed him, that had been his confirmation, plus the fact that she had literally said  _ “I feel it too,” _ but  _ stars _ — he couldn't for the  _ life _ of him figure out what she was thinking. 

He drew closer to her anyway, giving her room to pull away if she wanted. Her eyes flickered to his lips before closing— their foreheads were touching— he could practically hear her heartbeat, even though he had no Jedi Wolf powers like Scott did— 

And then she jerked back, her eyes wide and shocked, and the moment broke. 

“I… uh…” she started, before glancing behind her and fleeing the cockpit, just as Chewie reentered. He growled something to Lydia, asking if she was okay, but she just shoved past him, deeper into the ship. 

Chewie took his seat next to Stiles, glancing at him, confused.  _ What the hell was that?  _ he whuffed. 

“Man, I have no kriffing clue,” he responded, letting his head drop onto the control panel. “Let's just get out of here. We're heading for Bespin. Danny's there.” 

Chewie laughed, flicking on the power and steering the ship out of the star destroyer's drifting trash. 

If Stiles weren't so distracted, he might have noticed the small ship following behind them. 

***

Scott felt like his head was going to explode. 

Talia had said this was hard, and Scott had believed her, but this? This seemed downright _ impossible.  _

Talia could move things through the air as easily as breathing; she would flick her wrist, flex her hand a little, and all the objects in their surrounding area were subjected to her will. Scott was having a much harder time with this— he could move a few small objects, occasionally, but it made his head ache like it did now with the strain and effort it took on his mind. 

“This is pointless,” Scott informed Talia, his shoulders sagging, the small stone he'd been trying to move wiggling slightly and settling down on the mossy floor. 

“How can we even do this, anyway? Did werewolves used to be able to move things around if they were wolves?” 

“No,” Talia informed him, a no-nonsense look on her face that told Scott his momentary distraction was  _ so _ not keeping him from finishing up his exercises. “Wolves used their connection to the Force to shift into real animals. While we possess some of their wolf-like traits, the main thing we inherited from them is their connection to the Force. Since then, we have learned of other ways to use the power we are linked to.” 

“Maybe I'm not actually descended from a wolf,” Scott muttered, kicking the rock on the ground, willing it to move again. “I can't seem to get any of this to work.” 

“It takes time, Scott,” Talia assured him. “Young Jedi would take years and years to train.” Scott mumbled incoherent complaints again, and Talia fixed him with a look. 

“The stronger you are with the Force, the easier it is,” Talia reminded him. Scott tried to channel it, feel the buzz of power flowing through him as his senses sharpened— he thought of his mom and dad, his real parents, the people lost to the Empire— tried to push aside his anger and focus on compassion and selflessness. His hatred still lurked in the edges of his mind, like black smoke threatening to corrupt everything. Scott tried to force it out of his thoughts, and then he felt it— that buzz flowing through him, and ignoring his pounding head, he tried to move the stone again. It wiggled slightly before it gave up, resting still on the ground. 

He groaned audibly, glaring at Talia. “I give up,” he almost growled, defeat evident on his face. Talia stood to face him, crossing her arms. 

“Fine,” she told him. “I have something else for you to do.” 

She gave him a pointed look, before gesturing to a cluster of trees and rock maybe five meters away. “See that cave?” she asked, gesturing to a dark opening wedged in between the rocks, partially cloaked in mossy vines. “The dark side is strong in there. You have to face it.” 

Scott looked at her like she was crazy— he knew she was supposedly an all-powerful Jedi Master, and she could turn into a wolf, which was pretty legitimate—but he wasn't exactly sure why he would want to go into a place intimately laced with the dark side. He'd had enough experience with that, thanks; he didn't need any more. 

“Why would I want to go in there?” Scott asked. Talia gave him an exasperated look. 

“Because, Scott, you're not strong enough with the Force yet. I can't keep teaching you until you figure out how to connect to it and tap into its power. Go,” she urged him, gesturing to the cave. He turned to face it— yeah, it was dark, but it didn't look too bad— probably no chance of  _ certain _ imminent death. His hand immediately went to his lightsaber, drawing it from his belt. 

“You won't need that,” Talia said, looking at his lightsaber. Scott chose to ignore that comment— sure, he'd go in a creepy Force-cave because she told him to, but there was no way he wasn't bringing a weapon in with him. 

The cave was dark and quiet, mist curling off the ground, the musty scent of stagnant water and thick vegetation even stronger down here. Scott could feel every cell in his body vibrating with the presence of the Force— it was so strong down here Scott felt he could reach out and grab it from the air— but he wasn't sure what he was supposed to find down here. Talia was often cryptic in her instructions for him, but this was downright mysterious. 

He followed the cave into a clearing, though it was really more of a wide sinkhole. The ground was still a few meters above him, ropey vines weaving together into thick carpets draped over the side of the earthy walls. The cave continued past the clearing, around a rocky corner that jutted out into the small room. Scott was just about to round the corner when he heard a sound that made his blood freeze. The warm, muggy air of the planet disappeared, and he could have been on Hoth again, it was so frigid. 

A raggedy breath sounded from behind the rocks, and Darth Vader stepped into view. 

Scott immediately pulled out his lightsaber, powering it on and holding it in front of him as a shield. Vader drew his own red blade from his belt, holding it up to parry Scott's saber. 

It didn't even occur to Scott how Vader had gotten here, seeing as he had told  _ no one  _ where he was going, to avoid this very problem. The only thing racing through Scott's mind was that this was him. This was the man. The one who had killed his mom and dad, destroyed Alderaan, tortured Lydia, slaughtered Derek, and countless more evil feats. Scott was going to make him pay. 

The battle lasted surprisingly short, Vader barely blocking Scott's strikes. The Force hummed in Scott's ear, warning him this was bad, that he should run away, but Scott ignored it. This was his one chance. 

Vader swiped down at him, but Scott slipped under his blade, turning and catching him with his saber. He swung his lightsaber blindly, chopping off Vader’s head. Blood roared in his ears— he was dead, this monster that had destroyed everything he and his friends had known. Vader's body slumped down to the ground, his masked head rolling from where it had fallen, resting at Scott's feet, the empty blackness of the eye sockets staring right at him. Scott stared down at the mask, the hatred and anger bubbling in his veins. 

Then, with a puff of smoke, the faceplate split off, falling to the forest floor. Scott blanched when he saw the face behind the mask. 

It wasn't Vader's. It was his. 

The anger and hatred and rage pounding through his veins dissipated. Vader wasn't really here. Scott hadn't actually killed him. But the message was clear— he was giving in to his hatred, channeling the Force through his anger— and along the way, he was becoming more and more like Vader.

This was a test, and he had failed. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let the onslaught of Stydia content and bed sharing begin. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!! :)

Lydia spent the rest of the day avoiding Stiles at all costs— which wasn't hard, because after trying to talk to her and receiving nothing, he left her alone. 

She didn't know what to think. He had made his affections pretty clear— and their kiss had exposed she wasn't exactly indifferent to him either— but she was still too scared of losing him to do anything. So she closed herself off (something she had become very adept at) and avoided him. 

At night, though (at least it felt like night— there was no way to tell out in the galaxy, with endless blackness and stars) she had to face him.  

They were in the main hold, Lydia sitting on the benches behind the Dejarik board, Chewie next to her, C-3PO lurking in the doorway, and Stiles in front of her, across the table. He was looking at her, puzzled, like he was trying to figure out what she was thinking. She steadfastly ignored his stare. 

Stiles shook himself out of his trance and started. “Okay, so sleeping. Obviously, I've got my bunk, and Chewie had his— Lydia, there's another bunk in the crew cabin with Chewie, if you want, or a spare one out here in the hold— sorry, Chewie, but you snore.” Chewie growled in agreement. 

She grinned at the wookiee. “No offense, Chewie, but I already have trouble enough sleeping. I'll stay out here.” He growled in understanding. 

Stiles was still looking at her. “You can't sleep in that snowsuit,” he informed her. She was about to open her mouth and ask if he had any alternatives, seeing as these were the only articles of clothing she had, but he beat her to it, adding, “I have some things if you want.” 

She opened and closed her mouth, finally managing to get out, “Okay.”  

Stiles bounced on the balls of his feet, glancing at his first mate. “Chewie, do you mind steering for a bit? I'll take over once Lydia's settled in.” Chewie nodded in agreement and headed back to the cockpit. 

“Uh, wait right here, your highness,” Stiles said, glancing at her briefly. Her stomach sank at the realization they were back to titles. She nodded, tucking her hands under her legs and waiting patiently on the bench. 

Stiles returned a minute later, a white button down shirt in his hands. He gave it to her, rubbing the back of his neck nervously as she took it. 

“Uh, 'fresher's right there, you know that,” he said, gesturing, “and, here, this bunk's all yours.” He led her over to the spare bunk, tucked in the far corner of the hold. “I think we have— yeah, there's a blanket here too, and more right under the bunk if you're cold.” He put the faded quilt on the bunk, looking at her carefully. “Are you okay? I'm gonna go fly for a little while, but if you need anything, Chewie or I will—” 

“No, I'm fine,” she assured him. “Thank you.” The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife. 

“Okay,” Stiles said, throwing her another cautious glance before leaving. 

Lydia let herself into the refresher, trying to ignore the twisting sensation in her gut. She slipped out of her snowsuit and pulled Stiles's shirt on. It was like a dress on her tiny frame, but it was soft and worn, and it smelled like him. She left her underleggings on and carefully unpinned her braids, leaving the pins on the sink counter. With another quick glance around the hold, she climbed into the bunk, pulled the faded blanket over herself, and drifted to sleep. 

***

Everything was burning. 

The ground below her was black and sooty, and the rock she stood on was coarse underneath her bare feet. The air smelled of sulfur, and heat radiated from the ground and from the glowing lava flows cutting through the bleak landscape. Lydia was sweating in her thin clothing, loose hair stuck to her neck, as the heat of this world pressed down on her. 

But something was ahead— she wasn’t alone here. Squinting, she moved forward, the rocks cutting into her feet, until the figures came into view. Someone laid on the banks, body burned, face pale and mottled with huge gashes across, bloody and bruised. The figure’s eyes glowed brightest blue, ringed in black, and whoever it was let out a scream so anguished and full of pain and hatred that Lydia almost stepped back. Her eyes followed the figure’s line of sight, spotting another figure on the lava bank— this person younger, not injured at all, with dark hair and a scruffy beard. But his eyes too were full of pain, a lightsaber held loosely in his hand, unignited. 

_ “Where are they?” _ the figure screamed, voice twisted in pain. _ “Tell me where they are!” _

Lydia felt the screams echo in her head, pressing against her skull, and whispering, whispering things she couldn’t understand in her ear. She clutched her head, trying to block it out, make the noise stop—

“Lydia? Lydia! Come on, your highness, wake up... Lydia!” 

She opened her eyes and there was Stiles, his hair sticking up all to one side, his amber eyes full of sleep. He was wearing a thin shirt and plaid sleep pants— she had woken him up. It was a nightmare. 

She let out a gasping sob, half relief and half guilt. Tears leaked out of her eyes, but before she could wipe them, Stiles's thumbs were brushing under her eyes, clearing them away. 

“How did you even—?” she asked, suddenly horrified. Had her screams been  _ that _ loud? 

“Light sleeper,” he responded, still stroking her cheek. Gods, why did he have to be so _ sweet?  _

“Stop it,” she whispered, turning her head away from him. She was the Princess of Alderaan, a Rebellion leader— she hated people seeing her this vulnerable and broken. 

“Lydia,” he said, his voice so full of concern it caused her physical pain. 

“Look, I don't need anyone seeing me cry!” she spat, choking down a sob. His eyebrows furrowed, his amber eyes full of concern. 

“You shouldn't care if people see you cry,” he told her, moving so that he was perched on her bunk next to her. 

She half laughed. “Why not?” 

He gave her a little half smile, brushing away more of her tears. “Because I think you look really beautiful when you cry.” 

Gods, she  _ knew _ that was a line, and a cheesy, stupid one at that— but his eyes were so full of caring, and his palm was so warm on her face, his thumbs so soft on her cheekbone— she broke down, crying even harder. She let out another sob, and suddenly his arms were around her.

“Hey, Lyds, shhh... It's okay. It's over. You're okay... I've got you.” 

He was so warm, so solid, so  _ comforting,  _ and as much as she didn’t want to, she couldn't help but melt into him. She nestled her head into the crook between his neck and his shoulder, and her hands crept up his chest, resting right below his collarbone. He was rubbing soothing patterns onto her back with one arm, the other hand brushing her hair out of her face and back towards her long braid. 

“S-s-sorry,” she finally choked out, shuddering into him. His warmth radiated through his thin t-shirt. His hand paused momentarily, before he returned to rubbing patterns on her back.

“Why are you sorry?” he asked, brushing more tears from her cheek. 

“For waking you up,” she whispered, her sobs quelling. “For screaming. For being bothered by a s-s-stupid nightmare—” 

“Hey, don't apologize for that,” he replied. “You've been through a sith ton of trauma. Nightmares come along with that. And I'm not gonna judge— I used to have panic attacks, sleep paralysis, the works. C'mere.” 

He pulled her closer, still rubbing patterns on her back. “Do you want to try to go back to sleep?” he murmured into her hair. “If we're gonna maintain a normal sleep schedule, we still have a few standard hours before it's technically morning.” 

“I— I don't know if I can,” she confessed, her head still buried in his neck. He smiled down at her soothingly. 

“Well, I'll stay with you as long as you want. If that makes you feel better.” 

The worst part was, he sounded so  _ sincere,  _ so caring, and he shouldn’t be being this  _ nice _ to her, after she kissed him and ran off; refused to acknowledge this thing between them that they’d been dancing around for months, since Ord Mantell. Never before had Lydia’s feelings been put first by others the way Stiles put hers. And she hated him for leaving, even if she understood why—hated that he couldn’t see that all she wanted was for him to just  _ stay _ with her. She couldn't be doing this— she couldn't be falling head over heels for him like this, because if she lost him—

But tonight, she figured, just tonight… there was no harm in one night. 

“Thank you, Stiles,” she said, pulling away to wipe her nose. He grabbed a tissue from the shelves above her and handed it to her.

She looked up at him, and his big amber eyes were just staring at her, full of love and adoration and warmth and tenderness, and  _ Gods,  _ it was almost enough to make her forget he was leaving. 

“Okay,” she said. “I'll try to sleep again.” 

“Alright,” he agreed, untangling his arms from around her. Immediately she felt colder. She caught his hand as he stood up, looking up into his eyes. She didn't even  _ care _ anymore, she needed him, and she was sick of fighting herself on this. 

“Can you stay?” she whispered hesitantly. 

He immediately sat back down. “Of course. Always.” 

He slid into the bunk next to her, pulling the worn blanket over the two of them. She let him circle his arms around her again, pull her close into his warm body, let his fingers play with the end of her braid. 

“Better?” he asked, glancing at her through his long, thick lashes. 

“Mmm,” she agreed, snuggling closer and resting her head on his chest. His arms were so warm, his heartbeat so calming in her ear, that she felt sleep overcoming her again. 

“Sleep well, your highness,” he said, dropping a feather light kiss on the crown of her head. And she was gone— back in a world of calming, soothing dreams, not stuck on lava banks as disfigured faces screamed at her.

***

Lydia awoke the next morning to an empty bed. 

The sheets next to her were cold, which told her Stiles had left a while ago.  _ Stiles.  _ He had slept in her bunk with her last night. She had fallen asleep with her head on his chest, his heart beating in her ear—

She had  _ fallen asleep.  _

And she hadn't had  _ any _ nightmares. 

Lydia pulled the sheets back, sitting up before slowly climbing out of the tiny bunk. The floor of the Falcon was cool, even through her woolen socks, and she shivered a little. Space was  _ cold.  _

Tugging the blanket off the bunk and wrapping it around herself, she padded to the galley to make herself a cup of caf. 

There was already a pot sitting on the small stove to keep warm, a mug placed on the counter next to it. Lydia poured herself a cup before grabbing it in her hands and taking a sip. The hot liquid warmed her up immediately, though she kept the blanket around her. She heard Chewie's rumbling snores from the cabin next door. It must still be early, though the never ending black space outside gave no indication of passing of time. 

Lydia didn't know why, but somehow she found herself heading for the cockpit. 

She hesitated at the entrance, seeing Stiles from behind. He was in the captain's chair, his feet propped on the console, staring out into the void beyond. 

She gently rapped her knuckles on the doorway. Stiles jumped, turning around rapidly in his seat. 

“Mind if I join you?” she asked, taking a hesitant step into the cockpit. 

“No! Of course not,” Stiles said, flailing his arms towards the copilot's seat. She took that as her invitation to enter. She sat cross-legged in the copilot's chair, her steaming mug of caf held loosely between her legs. 

She paused awkwardly, feeling as though she should mention last night, but also really not wanting to. She could sense Stiles's hesitancy too— he was waiting for her to bring it up. 

She didn't want to, because admitting she slept the best that she had since before Alderaan last night would definitely somehow bring about her feelings for him. And despite what she’d said after they’d kissed the first time— in the aftermath, she still wasn’t sure she could face that yet. 

“Did you sleep okay?” he asked quietly, finally breaking the awkward silence. She glanced over at him, astounded at how much caring there was in his eyes. When he'd begrudgingly rescued her, albeit mostly just for the promise of reward, she'd thought he was just a disgruntled mercenary who had really only cared about money. But three years later, she could see how wrong she was. She knew the Rebellion didn't pay well— he wasn't here for the money. And despite his close friendship with Scott, she knew, truly, he wasn't here for Scott either. He was here for her. 

And that terrified her to no ends. 

“Yeah,” she responded, looking away from him, before glancing back. His eyes were asking the question she so desperately did not want to hear, and she silently begged him to drop it. He seemed to understand, because he didn't say anything, letting it go. 

“Well, one day down,” he commented, turning to stare out the window. “Thirty-ish to go.” 

Lydia hummed noncommittally. “I wonder how Scott's doing,” she mused, thinking of their friend, off in a strange world, learning from an ancient Jedi master. He'd told her more about his vision of Derek before he'd left, but he still refused to mention the name of the system. He didn't want to risk the Imperials finding this person first. 

“Probably not sleeping, only working on controlling his powers,” Stiles responded. “He's probably already found about fourteen beings to save.” 

Lydia chuckled. “His hero complex does know no bounds.” Stiles laughed too, readjusting his feet on the console, and his pants caught her eye. The thin yellow stripe of bars that ran down the outside seam of both legs had always made her curious— they were on all his pants, sometimes in yellow-gold, sometimes in red. 

“What are the stripes on your pants?” she said, nodding towards his crossed legs. “I've always meant to ask you. It looks like a military honor, but it's not Imperial.” 

“Nah, it's a Corellian bloodstripe,” he responded. “Only honor they didn't strip from me when they kicked me out of the Imperial Navy.” 

Lydia knew he'd graduated from the Imperial Naval Academy, and that they'd thrown him out of the Navy not long after, but she'd never gotten a reason why. She didn't think Scott even knew. That was another thing the two of them shared— a vehement distaste for talking of their pasts. 

“Remind me again why they threw you out?” she questioned. He glanced at her. 

“Uh,” he started, his forehead creasing in concentration, like he was trying to remember. She raised her eyebrows. He was actually going to tell her. “Treason, insubordination, endangering the lives of others, disobedience and betrayal, and I think, technically, disturbing the peace.” 

Lydia's eyebrows rose halfway up her forehead. “Oh my  _ gods,  _ Stiles, what did you  _ do?”  _

“I freed Chewie,” he stated simply. “The Empire's kind of big on slavery. They had him chained up, had clearly beaten him, and I couldn't— they were dragging him off somewhere else, and I just couldn't let them.” 

“And that qualifies as  _ treason?” _ she asked, incredulous. 

Stiles grimaced. “I sort of shot the stormtroopers moving him.”

Lydia huffed out her breath. Figures, he'd get himself kicked out doing something incredibly selfless and heroic. 

“Anyway, Chewie then decided he owed me a life debt, and we've stuck together ever since,” Stiles continued. “At first, I tried to make him go home. Argued I didn't get kicked out for him to be a slave to me. But he stuck around anyway. We became really good friends. I make sure we go to Kashyyyk and visit his wife and son pretty often.” 

“Wow,” Lydia responded. “That is not what I imagined you got thrown out for.” 

Stiles shrugged. “I'm not big on slavery.” 

That she could definitely agree on. Since she got elected in the senate, up until Alderaan was destroyed, she'd fought hard and long against slavery in the galaxy. The Empire was filled with a whole host of human-supremacists who had no use and no respect for other sentient species. Enslavement of species like Wookiees and Twi’leks had spiked considerably since the Clone Wars, and Lydia had been determined to get that rate down to nothing. At least, before a Rebellion had turned her senate aspirations upside down. 

“Neither am I,” she agreed, looking at him. He shifted in his seat. 

“I know,” he said. She raised her eyebrows questioningly. “I, uh,” he stumbled. “I saw you once. On the holonews. In the senate.” 

“Really?” Lydia asked. “You don't seem like the type to watch senate meetings.” 

“Chewie wanted to see,” Stiles insisted. “It was on the news in some bar, stars,  _ years _ ago. You looked barely sixteen. And you were ripping into Grand Moff Daehler like you didn't have a fear in the world.” 

“I must have been just elected,” she mused. “I got into so many fights with him over basic sentient rights, I don't even remember.” 

“I didn't realize that was you until I saw you screaming at Scott and Isaac and the rest of Omega Squadron, about a year ago,” he said. “You looked ready to take on the world.” 

She laughed, taking another sip of her caf. “Well, when you're a leader in the Rebellion...” 

He grinned at her, before glancing out the window again. Endless velvety black and stars stretched out in front of them. 

Lydia shivered under her blanket. 

“You cold?” Stiles asked, looking at her. 

She nodded. “I've been freezing since we got to Hoth. Space is no better, temperature-wise.” 

“I can agree on that,” Stiles responded. “Though I think Hoth is still the coldest kriffing place I've ever been. And I've been to a lot of places.” 

He uncrossed his legs, standing and going over to fiddle with some dials. Lydia immediately felt warm air wash over her skin. 

She sighed contently. “That feels amazing.” 

He smirked at her. “I aim to please, your worship. The heating system is the only thing on this ship that reliably works.” 

“Well, at least we have that,” she said, leaning back in the co-captain's chair. 

Stiles chuckled, settling back in the captain's chair again. “We might get shot down by Imperials, but we definitely won't freeze to death.” 

Lydia gave him a little smile, and their eyes met again. She could see the questions behind them— what did last night mean, what did yesterday in the circuitry bay mean, was she _ ever _ going to give him a straight answer here— but he just smiled and looked away, giving her more time. 

Lydia hoped eventually she'd be able to give him the answers he wanted to hear. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll just say this-- I'm sorry if you're reading this story for Scott.
> 
> Enjoy!

When Chewie came to relieve Stiles of his flying duties, Stiles didn't know what to do. 

There was  _ nothing _ to do. It was unnerving. 

He couldn't remember the last time he'd had this much free time. Even on the Rebel bases, when he had down time between supply runs and didn't feel like tinkering with the Falcon, he could turn on the news or find a pod race or something on the holovision, or send a holo through to Kashyyyk and chat with Malla for a while, but out here, in no man's land— there was no reception, no reaching anyone, and he was pretty sure that the communications system had gotten damaged in the shootout with the star destroyer. 

He had no idea what they were going to do for the next month it took them to get to Bespin. 

He walked into the hold, thinking maybe he'd go through some of the boxes of junk in there, see if he could find any old movie chips or something, but stopped dead at the sight of Lydia, curled up on the couch next to the Dejarik board, facing away from him. She was still wearing one of his shirts, and she had the collar tugged down to reveal a huge, purplish, splotchy bruise covering her neck and shoulder. She was rubbing at it absentmindedly as she focused on something in her lap— probably an old datapad or something. 

“Lydia?” he said tentatively, still looking at her neck in horror. She whipped around to face him, her hand flying away from her neck and tugging her shirt back in place. 

“Hi,” she said hesitantly, tucking her hand into her lap, trying to draw attention away from her neck, but Stiles was having none of that. 

“How— what the hell happened to your neck?” he asked, taking a few steps closer to her. 

She looked at his shyly. “When the tunnels started collapsing on Hoth, one of the chunks of ice caught me.” 

“Why didn't you  _ say _ something?” Stiles demanded. 

She shrugged. “It's fine, really.” 

“That's not  _ fine _ .” He sat next to her on the couch, hand hovering over the collar of the shirt, waiting for her nod before hesitantly coaxing her shirt off her shoulder. “That looks really kriffing painful, Lydia.”

“It doesn't hurt  _ that _ much,” she insisted, though Stiles knew Lydia, and he knew she would always play off her own pain like this. Like, for example, when she ignored the fact that the Empire had drilled a  _ hole _ in her head and instead led an attack mission on the Death Star. 

“I have some pain stuff,” he said, standing up and going for the first aid kit in the 'fresher. “Uh, bacta patches, and an anti-inflammatory— I don't know if that'll do anything—” he walked back into the hold, first aid kit in hand. “I have pain relievers, though.” 

“Okay,” she agreed quietly, so Stiles opened the kit. He rummaged around— bandages, bacta patches, before finally locating the syringe of pain medication and pulling it out. “Turn around, I'll give it to you right in the neck, it'll work faster— Lydia?” Stiles asked, because Lydia had frozen, her body slightly shaking, her face as white as a sheet. 

“Lydia, are you okay?” 

“No,” she whispered. “No, don't, please—” her voice was shaking, radiating terror, and Stiles was so confused, because a second ago she had been fine— what had he done that had made her react like this? 

“Lydia, come on,” he continued gently. “Don't pretend the pain's not bothering you—” 

“Stiles,” she cut him off, her voice quaking, and her whole body was shaking violently, her face void of color, her terrified eyes locked on the needle in his hand. His jaw almost dropped. 

“Get it away from me,” she pleaded, her eyes never leaving his hand. Stiles immediately lowered his hand with the syringe in it, still looking at her, shocked. 

“I'm sorry, I didn't—” He leaned closer to her, not thinking, only trying to comfort her, but his hand with the needle drew closer unintentionally, and Lydia moved so fast he barely saw her do it— one second, his hand was hovering over the Dejarik table, and the next thing he knew, she had smacked his hand away, the syringe falling to the floor and shattering. 

“Don't touch me!” she snarled, her voice full of pure, primal fear, her skin still so white it was almost translucent. The second she got out the words, her eyes widened, and she drew back into herself, curling into a ball in the corner of the couch. 

“Sorry,” she whispered, looking at him apologetically, wrapping her arms tightly around her drawn-up legs, but Stiles just shook his head. 

“No, my bad,” he insisted. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have gotten closer to you—” He paused briefly. “Why are— are you really that scared of needles?” 

She looked at him, eyes still wide, and hesitantly opened her mouth, whispering two words: “Death Star.” 

It all clicked into place, then. Lydia never talked about it, but he knew she'd been tortured— he just never realized the extent of it before. 

“Oh,” he said stupidly, blinking at her. He didn't know how else to respond to that. 

“When they held me prisoner,” she said shakily, “they stuck me, drugged me—” 

“Stop,” Stiles instructed. He tried to give her a reassuring look. “It's fine, I get it. You don't have to say it.” 

She looked at him gratefully. “Sorry I hit you. I just...every time I see a… a needle... I'm back there. In that cell.” 

“Don't apologize,” he assured her. “It's my fault, I should have asked first.” 

She sighed, sliding a little closer to him on the bench. He hesitantly glanced at her neck. 

“I don't have any oral pain relievers,” he said. “But I could rub your neck for you, if you want. Loosen the muscles.” 

She paused for a moment, still looking at him cautiously, and the silence was crushing Stiles. “Okay,” she finally agreed, sliding over so she was right next to him on the bench. “Thanks.” 

Stiles delicately moved her shirt collar down, before gently starting to massage the bruised skin on her back. She sighed, leaning back into him, and his heart leapt into his throat. She hadn’t been this casual around him in  _ months, _ hadn’t let her guard down this much since before Ord Mantell— 

“What are you doing on that?” he asked, nodding at the datapad she'd picked up again. 

“Watching an old movie,” she responded. He could see it on the screen— it was some old, sappy romance about a girl and a Corellian racer pilot— she was only about fifteen minutes in. “Do you want to watch?” she asked, shifting to prop the datapad up on the Dejarik table. 

“Sure,” he responded; he'd seen the holo a million times, but he really didn't want Lydia to move out of her current spot, which was practically in his lap. 

Lydia turned up the volume, and they continued watching, Stiles's hands still working at her neck. As the movie went on, she leaned farther back into him, until finally her back was pressed up against his chest, her braids tickling his chin. She sighed contentedly, eyes still fixed on the screen. 

By the time the holo finished, Stiles had long abandoned his massaging, and instead had just wrapped his arms comfortingly around her. 

***

The nightmares still returned to haunt Lydia that night. 

She wasn't sure why they were suddenly this bad— the impending threat of being captured, the crushing feeling of constantly drifting through space, or the fact that they had no idea where Scott was or if he (or anyone in Omega Squadron, actually) was safe— but she could barely make it through a few hours of rest without awakening in a cold sweat, tears running down her face, her throat rubbed raw from screaming. In this dream she had been back on the lava planet again, but this time, the figure on the banks was gone— now it was the dark haired woman, pain in her bright eyes, a lightsaber gripped tightly in her hand as the lava behind her burned. 

“You're alright, Lydia, I'm right here,” Stiles murmured, smoothing her hair and wiping away her tears. He held her until she calmed down, and when he went to leave, Lydia caught his hand again. 

“Can you stay?” she asked, and she hated that she felt this weak, but just being in the same space as Stiles calmed her, and she hadn't had as good of a night's sleep as last night's since before the Death Star. 

“Of course,” he said again, giving her that gentle little smile. “But do you mind if we move to my cabin? My bunk's bigger, and I really don't want to give Chewie another reason to make fun of us. It's a miracle he didn't see us last night.” 

Lydia gave a watery laugh. “Sure.” 

He picked up her hand and led her down the hall into his cabin. 

The only other time she’d been in here was when she had gotten shot— and her memories of that were pretty fuzzy. The cabin was small and rundown, like the rest of the Falcon. There was one bunk, a storage unit built into the wall, and a small 'fresher off of the cabin. The walls were bare, the paint was chipped, and there was a crack in the ceiling. She didn't know what she was expecting— posters, or photos, or some fabulous insight into Stiles, but the cabin, while comfortable and welcoming, didn't offer any of that. 

Stiles led her over to his bunk, pulling back the rumpled blanket and letting her climb in. The sheets were still warm, and there was an indent in his pillow from where his head had been before he'd rushed out to the hold to wake her from her nightmares. Stiles climbed in after her, immediately looping his arms around her waist and pulling her close in his arms, making her feel protected. 

Lydia wasn't sure what to do. This casual intimacy— it meant so much more, she knew, but she wasn’t sure she was brave enough to address it yet, this monumental thing between them that would inevitably change  _ everything.  _ So she said nothing, and reveled in his warmth at night. 

***

Lydia was wearing his shirt, and it was becoming  _ increasingly _ distracting. 

He'd offered her some of his clothes a few days into the trip, as the only thing she had with her to wear was her snowsuit. She'd taken to padding around the ship in the leggings she'd worn under her snow pants, thick woolen socks, and his shirts. 

Today she was wearing a plaid flannel one he hadn't worn in ages— it had been buried in the back of a drawer, just too small for him to wear comfortably. It swallowed her whole, though, and she had rolled the sleeves several times, until they were cuffed around her wrists. The shirt hung to her mid thighs, and she looked so adorable in it that Stiles kept getting distracted. 

Unfortunately, the situation he was currently in was not a good situation for distractions. 

“Ow,” he muttered, his hand jumping away from a live wire that had shocked him. He had pried open one of the hatches to the inner workings of the Falcon and was standing in the alcove below the floor now, fiddling with circuits. His shoulders were level with the ground, but he stood hunched over a tangle of wires, the lights on the ceiling of the Falcon high above him. 

“Careful, hotshot,” Lydia teased, swinging her legs. She was perched on the edge of the alcove, her feet dangling down into the pit, so she could easily kick Stiles in the back if she wanted to. Considering she was wearing woolen socks and not her heavy snow boots, he was pretty sure he would survive if she got mad at him suddenly. Which, you know, wasn't unheard of. 

“I'm fine,” he grumbled, straightening up so his head was above ground again. He reached over to the holopad resting on the floor in front of him, pressing the button to wake it up. A list of all the systems popped up, colors flashing across the screen. 

“What is that?” Lydia asked. 

“All the Falcon's systems,” he responded. “Helps me keep track of what needs repairs.” 

“What are the different colors for?” she questioned, swinging her feet dangerously close to his side. He folded his arms on the floor in front of him, glancing from her to the datapad. 

“They're color coded to show what systems are working or not,” he explained. “Red's for not working, green's for working, yellow's for mostly working.” He shrugged. “Blue's just pretty.” 

She glanced at the list on the holopad before giving him a dainty smirk. “You only have red on the list,” she informed him. 

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Yes, thank you, I'm aware of that.” There were two green systems currently— the navigation computer and the heat. 

Hopefully Danny would be able to fix the ship before she fell apart for good. 

Lydia just smirked at him. 

Stiles tried to ignore how cute she looked while making fun of him. 

“Could you pass me that hydrospanner?” he asked instead, nodding towards the tool resting too far out of his reach. She nodded, leaning back to grab it and handing it over. He turned back to the thing he was trying to fix, becoming lost in his work again. 

“This is weird,” Lydia said suddenly. He turned to look at her. 

“What's weird?” he asked, thinking to himself,  _ The fact that you kissed me and won't talk about it? Or that you've been sleeping in my bed for the past week but still won't acknowledge it? Or that you basically told me you have feelings for me but now won’t bring it up at all? _ But he didn't say that. He and Lydia had finally gotten back to that comfortable friendship they'd had a while ago— before she'd gotten shot, before she’d spent a week in his arms in the med center, before she had pretended that never happened and they didn’t acknowledge it—and he had missed their friendship so much in those months. If it took pretending he wasn't in love with her again to keep her in his life, well, so be it. 

“Having all this downtime,” she said instead, gently swinging her feet. “I haven't just—  _ sat around _ — since at least before Alderaan.” 

Stiles quieted at the mention of her planet. She hardly ever spoke about it, and he could see the pain behind her green eyes even as she said the name. 

“Well, stars know you work harder than about ninety percent of the people on that base,” Stiles replied, because it was true. Lydia was always commanding troops, planning attacks, breaking codes, counting supplies— he didn't think he'd ever actually seen her take a break in the three years he'd known her. 

“Helps keep my mind off things,” she said quietly, looking down. Stiles could sense the sadness in her voice, so he put down his tools and hauled himself out of the alcove, sitting next to her on the floor, his feet dangling with hers. He didn't say anything— he didn't want to push her or make her talk about something she didn't want to— but he was here to listen, if she needed to speak. 

“Did I ever tell you how I got into the Rebellion?” she asked, looking at him, her eyes so full of sorrow. Stiles shook his head wordlessly— they were great friends, and they talked about lots of things— but the past was the one topic they both actively avoided. 

“I wanted to join the Rebellion so badly when I was younger,” she said finally. Stiles covered her hand with his, giving it a little squeeze that he hoped was comforting. He was  _ so _ out of his element here. Swindling and sweet-talking his way out of sticky situations with criminals and gang leaders, sure, but he had no idea how to comfort a war-hardened princess of a destroyed world. So he just listened, hoping that was enough. 

“I joined the senate as a junior senator when I was fourteen,” she said. “And then I got elected as an actual senator at sixteen. I was always so eager to lead little side missions, whenever they’d let me. Bring relief aid to some backwater planet, and let the Rebel forces there conveniently rob me.” She chuckled. “The Imperial soldiers guarding me always said my ships had an unfortunate habit of being stolen by Rebels. I thought it was hilarious and exciting, going behind their backs like that, risking it all for freedom for the galaxy.” She paused, and swallowed. Stiles could see the pain in her face. “My mom always wanted to keep me out of it—it was too messy and too violent for a sixteen year old. But I would always find a way to sneak off, or run a mission right under the Imperials’ noses.” She glanced down at the floor. “I didn’t ever really realize what this was really was like when I was younger. I didn’t get the cost of what we were doing. Not until the mission where they gave me those Death Star plans. Not until they blew up Alderaan.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, squeezing her hand. It seemed like a stupid thing to say, considering all she’d been through, and how many people must have said the same exact words to her, but he wasn’t sure what else to say to her. How did you comfort someone who had come to terms with losing everything they’d ever had?

“It’s okay,” she breathed, automatically, like muscle memory, even though what had happened to her was the farthest thing from okay. She turned to look at him, and her eyes were so sad. “I was so excited when they gave me that mission to Tatooine. They needed someone young, someone unsuspecting, to go get Derek and bring him to Alderaan. Since I was their princess, the job was perfect for me. I had diplomatic immunity; they shouldn’t have been able to do anything to me.” She paused, looking down at the floor. “I waited on my ship and watched the Empire slaughter the rebel forces on Scarif. No one made it off the planet alive, Rebel or Imperial. My ship escaped just in time with the plans, headed for Tatooine. After I got Derek, I was supposed to go back home. But there wasn't anywhere for me to go anymore.”

A tear slipped down her cheek, and Stiles almost felt like crying himself. Lydia had been through so much more than she deserved— than anyone deserved, really, but she was still standing strong, fighting on. He was positive she was the bravest person he knew.

“After the battle of Yavin, they didn't know what to do with me. And I didn't know what to do with me. I had nowhere to go— Alderaan was gone, and Daehler's execution order on me was still legitimate— kill on contact, no trial. So I made Morell give me a commission, and I stayed.” She glanced at him, her lips just turned up in the smallest hint of a barely-there smile. “She could barely bring herself to do it. She's been calling me “your highness” since before I could walk, and now she's my commanding officer.”

Stiles gave her a little smile back, before wrapping one of his arms around her shoulders, pulling her into a side hug. She just rested her head on his shoulder, her long, pinned-up braids tickling his neck. 

As much as he hated Lydia being sad, he would gladly stay like this, her head on his shoulder, him comforting her, for the rest of his life.

He really hoped she knew that. That he would do literally anything just to see her smile.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late, I got sucked into second-hand watching Game of Thrones. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Two weeks into the trip, Lydia was seriously regretting not grabbing her personal holopad before leaving command on Echo Base. 

Stiles had a few books stashed away on the Falcon, stored on an old datapad, and both of them had read all the books twice by now. Inventory of supplies (which was slowly dwindling from  _ actual _ things like dried fruits, preserved bantha meat, and blue milk to ration bars and black caf) was extremely accurate, simply given the fact that Lydia counted at least twice a day. She had almost mastered Shyriiwook, and if she never played another game of Dejarik in her life, it would be too soon. 

Since there was absolutely nothing else to do, except tinker with parts of his broken down ship (which never seemed to end well), Stiles had turned to cleaning the main hold. 

The main hold clearly wasn't used for actual goods, as there was absolutely nothing of value there. Stiles explained to her, as she sat cross-legged on the floor and he rooted through crates of  _ junk, _ that most crews didn't live on their ship full time. The captain's quarters and the galley had been modifications he put in, and this hold was designated for living space and storage, while they mainly used the other holds on the ship for actual transported goods. 

Or they used the sensor-proof compartments below them, if he was smuggling something illegal. Which he generally was. 

_ “Gods,”  _ Stiles muttered, chucking stuff from the box aside. “I should have gone through this  _ ages _ ago.” 

He picked up a small security drone and laughed. “Scott practiced on this thing when we were on our way to rescue you,” he told Lydia, rolling it towards her. “Derek was teaching him how to use a lightsaber— had him deflect the blaster bolts—” 

Lydia chuckled, picking up the small orb. She rolled it back to Stiles, careful not to hit the bottle of liquor and half-empty glass resting next to him. “What else is in there?” she questioned. 

Stiles shrugged, before pawing through the box some more. He froze momentarily. 

“Kriffing—  _ hell _ , I thought I'd lost this,” he breathed, his eyes locked on something in the box. 

“What?” she asked, scooting closer. She peered into the box, seeing a small, faded velvet box in his hand. 

“What is it?” she repeated, glancing at Stiles. He was still frozen. 

“It's— it was my mother's,” he said quietly. “I— kest, I never thought it'd be in  _ here _ — I figured someone stole it when I was moving ships or something—” 

He flicked the box open, and inside was a necklace. 

It was simple, a delicate golden chain with what Lydia realized was a ring dangling on the end. The ring was thin and gold, with two strands of metal intertwined and crossed over each other, a tiny stone set in the top. “It's the only thing of hers I have,” Stiles explained. “She gave me up when I was two or three. Died a few days later. I really don't remember her much,” he said, turning to Lydia. “But I remember keeping this hidden, so Harris wouldn't take it.” 

“Who's Harris?” she asked, and almost immediately regretted it. She knew his childhood wasn't pretty— she'd heard whispers from Scott, and he  _ never _ talked about where he came from. She knew he was from Corellia, mainly because he swore in that language, but everything else about his past was a complete mystery to her. Stiles's face had hardened, and he glanced at her quickly. 

“You sure you wanna hear my sob story?” he asked, looking her in the eye. She nodded, taking his hand and gently squeezing it. 

“You don't have to,” she whispered, but he brushed her off. 

“I'll give you the abridged version,” he told her. She nodded, squeezing his hand again. 

“Harris was a jerk, and a dictator,” he said, looking away from her. “Took in orphans, taught us to pickpocket and beg. Gave us food and shelter, beat us if we didn't bring back enough.” He swallowed. “He never liked me much, because I talked back to him. Gave the other kids the impression he wasn't as all-powerful as he claimed. But I was good at pickpocketing— _ really _ good— so he put up with me. He made sure to hit me extra hard, though. I still have scars.” He paused. “He got shot in a bar fight when I was fifteen or so. I lived on the streets by myself for a while. When I was old enough, I joined the Academy.” 

“Why?” she asked quietly. She'd known he'd been in the Imperial Navy— she'd found his uniform a couple years back, when they were flying a mission together on the Falcon, but she'd never known why he joined. 

Stiles shrugged. “Not for political reasons, that's for sure. It was a bed, steady pay, and three meals a day. Seemed like paradise to me.” Glancing back at her, he gave her a sad little smirk. “Different than growing up a princess, huh?” 

She gave him a small grin back. “Just a little.” Stiles closed the box and slipped it in his pocket, before looking back at her again. 

“Do you need a drink?” he asked, standing up. “Because I need another drink.” Before Lydia could even respond, he had disappeared. 

A minute later he returned with another  glass, and set it down next to his. He poured some into both glasses, handing her the new one and sipping from his. 

“Where's this from?” she questioned, sniffing it.

“Corellia,” he said, like it was obvious. She raised an eyebrow at him. 

“I don't remember seeing this when I was taking inventory.” 

He made a face. “Obviously, because I keep the good stuff like this hidden.” 

She shrugged, taking a sip of the whiskey. She'd never been much for drinking, but it tasted nice, despite the burning feeling it left in her throat. 

Stiles took another sip, before returning to the crate before him. He continued digging around, before his face broke out into a huge grin. 

Lydia took another dainty sip of her drink, watching as he pulled two music chips out of the box. “Kest, these are old,” he said, examining them. “I wonder if they still work.” He finished off his glass, leaving it next to the bottle and striding across the room to a very old looking music player. He put one in, fiddled with some buttons, and suddenly, music filled the quiet cabin. 

Stiles laughed. Not two seconds later, Chewie stuck his head in the room, asking what was going on. 

“I found music chips,” Stiles told his first mate. “Gods, I remember dancing to this at some bar on Tatooine with some Twi'lek girl— when was that? Way before the whole dropped spice mess, right?” Chewie growled back that he wasn't sure, shrugging his furry shoulders. “Stars, this stupid cantina song— every band would play it, you couldn't go to any bar in the galaxy without hearing it for  _ months _ —” 

Stiles returned to the whiskey, pouring himself another glass. He took a sip and set it on the Dejarik table, ignoring Chewie's disgruntled growls.

“Let's dance,” Stiles said, a catlike grin on his face. “C'mere, Chewie!” 

Chewie howled in protest, but Stiles grabbed his huge furry hands and dragged him into the middle of the room. Stiles's limbs flailed wildly to the music, while Chewbacca just watched him in horror. 

“My word, what is going on?” Threepio said, appearing in the hall. Lydia laughed. 

“Goldenrod!” Stiles exclaimed. “Come on, come dance.” 

“Oh, Captain Solo, I am simply programmed for protocol, not—” but Stiles was dragging him into the middle of the room too. 

“C'mon,” Stiles insisted. “I bet you're really good at the robot.” 

“Exactly how much have you had to drink, Captain?” Threepio questioned, still standing still. 

“Don't worry about it,” Stiles insisted, taking another sip. “Come on, dance!” 

Threepio hesitantly began to move to the music, and he certainly did make the robot look good. 

Stiles threw back his head and laughed, as Chewie grabbed his hand and spun him around. The two of them with their flailing limbs, with Threepio jerkily moving next to them, were quite the sight. Lydia couldn't help but giggle. 

Stiles looked over to her, a huge grin still on his face, his eyes shining. Lydia realized what he was about to do a second before he bounded over to her, sticking out his hand. 

“Wanna dance?” he asked. 

She grinned back primly. “I'll pass.” 

His smile faltered briefly, before he laughed. His hand was still extended towards her. “Lydia, get off your cute little ass and dance with me.” 

She laughed back at him. “Interesting tactic, but I'm gonna stick with no.” 

His smile was infectious. “Lydia, come on,” he pleaded, still grinning. She rolled her eyes at him, before grabbing his hand and allowing him to pull her towards the music player. 

Stiles was still holding her hand as he began to dance again. She laughed at him as he twirled her under his arm, before she stumbled into Chewbacca. The wookiee grabbed her waist and lifted her into the air, putting her back down to a chorus of laughter.

“Captain Solo, I really do believe I should be overseeing the flight of the ship,” Threepio interrupted again. Stiles groaned. 

“Fine, Goldenrod, be a killjoy. We'll be here, having fun.” The droid shuffled off. 

Lydia couldn't keep track of how long they danced. The three of them danced together for some songs, while Stiles and Chewie demonstrated intricate routines of flailing for others. She did a full on rendition of a dance she'd learned at school when she was about ten years old, much to Stiles and Chewie's amusement. 

A few hours later, the whiskey was almost gone, and Chewie slunk off to relieve Threepio from his flying duties for the night. Lydia was tired, but just as she opened her mouth to inquire about bed, a slower song came on. It was pretty, the melodic words sung in what sounded like Old Corellian. 

“Wanna dance?” Stiles asked her, offering a hand. His smile was smaller now, but his eyes still shined. 

“We're already dancing, flyboy,” she responded, and he rolled his eyes. 

“You know what I mean,” he said, but she just smiled back, slipping her arms around his neck. His hands fell to her waist, settling above her hips. Gods, he was so much bigger than her— she could feel his fingertips meet on the small of her back. 

“Thank you,” she murmured to him, as they swayed back and forth. She let her head drop onto his chest. “This made me forget about everything.” 

“Mmm,” he agreed, his chin resting on her head. She tightened her arms around his neck, and he pulled her closer. 

“What are they saying?” she asked, regarding the song, as the percussion in the background escalated. “It's Old Corellian, right?” 

“Yeah,” he responded. “It's an old song. I thought you knew Old Corellian.” 

“I know some of it,” she hummed. “I know the last word he keeps saying—  _ knavino.  _ Girl, right?” 

“Yeah,” Stiles murmured into her hair. “It's called ‘Ne Jusha Ihn Knavino.’ ‘Not Just A Girl.’”

“It's pretty,” she said, lifting her head from his chest and looking into his eyes. 

“Yeah,” he agreed. She could see the look in his eye, and practically hear his voice in his head saying,  _ but not as pretty as you.  _

He was moving closer to her lips, and Lydia could pull away— ruin this moment, and break whatever fragile thing they had between them, because she was scared. Or she could just give in to what she was feeling, for once. 

She stood on her tiptoes and met him halfway. 

Stiles sighed into her mouth, and she wasn't sure if it was him or the whiskey, but she felt like she was floating. She wished she wasn't so afraid, so that maybe, for once, she could have something that actually made her happier than she had been in a long time.  

***

Unfortunately, the whiskey and the dancing did not make her sleep better. 

She awoke that night, crying and whimpering again. Stiles was there, smoothing back her hair, his voice full of sleep and his eyes barely open. 

She'd abandoned any hope of sleeping in her own bunk more than a week ago. 

“You're alright, Lyds,” he said, tugging her head onto his chest. “I'm right here. You're okay.” 

“They killed you,” she whispered back, still terrified of her newest night visions. The woman had been gone, the fiery planet replaced with terrifying dreams of Vader. She could hear the steady beat of his heart under her ear, but she still felt like she had lost him. “The Imperial ships caught us, and they killed you, and Chewie, and Scott—” 

“Hey,” Stiles said softly, looking down at her. His amber eyes were fully open now, though still glazed with sleep. “I'm right here, princess. I'm fine. I'm not going anywhere.” 

“Yes, you are,” she whispered into his chest, ashamed of how scared she sounded. She was a princess and a commander and she was supposed to be  _ fearless _ — she wasn't supposed to feel this weak. She shouldn't need Stiles in order to feel complete. 

And she knew, deep down, she didn't  _ really _ need him. If he left her, right now, it would hurt, and she would suffer, but she could get back up again and continue on. She  _ could _ do it. 

Scott's words rang in her head.  _ Maybe, if you tell him, he'll stop trying to leave. _

She could survive losing him, but she didn't want to. She hoped she didn't have to. 

She felt him stiffen under her, and he shifted so they were sitting up, facing each other. One of his hands still had the end of her long braid in it, twisting the hair through his fingers. 

“What do you mean, yes, I am?” he asked, looking at her quizzically. 

“You're leaving,” she whispered into the dark. “After you get me to a base, you’re going to pay off Jackson.” 

Stiles sighed, glancing at her through his lashes. Seriously, what right did a person have to possess  _ eyelashes _ so long and thick? 

“Lydia, we’ve been over this,” he whispered, his face suddenly inches from hers, his amber eyes completely awake now. He looked at her, his expression soft, before continuing. “It’s just a quick detour, and it’s to keep you safe. You’re not getting hurt again because of me.” 

“Yeah, to keep me safe,” she said, almost on the verge of tears. “But what about you?” 

Now he looked really confused. “What? What about me?” 

“What if Jackson doesn’t just want his money back— what if that’s not enough?” she asked, looking down. “What if he kills you, or takes you prisoner, or something else?” Stiles opened his mouth to protest, but Lydia cut him off. “Scott told me about the Hutts, and how things work on Tatooine. I’m not an idiot. Crime lords aren’t very forgiving when you’ve repeatedly pissed them off.” 

“I’ll be fine, Lydia,” Stiles said, finding her hand. “Okay?” 

“But what if you’re  _ not?”  _ she demanded. “You keep saying how you couldn’t live with yourself if I got hurt, but have you even considered asking me how  _ I _ would feel if  _ you _ got hurt?” 

Stiles’s jaw dropped slightly open at her words, his eyes wide and confused. “Wait, what?” 

“I would feel the same!” she snapped, her voice strained, choked on unshed tears, half from her nightmare, half from the emotion built up in her chest. “Okay? I couldn’t keep going without you!” 

Stiles froze. “You said that on Ord Mantell,” he told her. “I— do you remember?” 

_ “Yes,” _ she breathed, nodding her head.  _ “Yes,  _ I remember that, because I have thought it every day  _ since.”  _

Stiles just stared at her, a bewildered, awestruck look in his eye, like he couldn’t believe they were really talking about this. “What are you saying, Lydia?” he asked, and she almost groaned, because he was the one who always figured it out. How could he not see what she was trying to say?

She opened her mouth, trying to formulate words— but her mind was completely blank. Words had always been her ally in the senate— she could shape and twist them into the perfect argument, wield them like a weapon, use them to convince people to see her point of view, but here, in this moment, with Stiles’s eyes so so close to hers— words were failing her. And she decided, sometimes actions were just better than words. 

Before she could second guess herself, she moved her other hand from her lap to his cheek and tugged his face towards her, bringing their lips together. 

At first, Stiles flailed a little, obviously shocked at this turn of events, but then he came to his senses, regaining control over his limbs and pulling her into his arms. She would have laughed at his lack of poise, but his lips were on hers, so she didn't say anything. She just drank him in— his smell, his feel, his taste. 

“What do you  _ think  _ I’m saying?” she asked when they pulled away, foreheads resting against each other. 

“Well, last time you kissed me, you told me you had feelings for me but then pretended that you didn’t say that and we never talked about it again, so you can see my confusion—”

“Stiles, please just shut up and kiss me again.” 

“Yeah, okay, I can definitely do that—” he managed to get out, before she tugged him into her again. 

When they pulled away a minute later, breath ragged and hearts pounding, Lydia just— hovered there, in his space, loving every single thing about being so intimately close to Stiles. He threaded his fingers through her hair, his palm cradling the back of her head, his other hand tangled in hers. 

“So,” Stiles started, voice impossibly low. 

“So,” Lydia answered, heart beating frantically. 

“Please tell me we’re not gonna do the whole ‘dance around our feelings and never talk about them again’ thing this time, because I really can’t—” 

“I don’t want you to leave,” Lydia interrupted, her heart pounding at the magnitude of her confession. Regardless of how comfortable she felt with Stiles, he overwhelming fear of admitting her feelings to him still terrified her to no ends. Stiles stopped talking immediately, his breath hitching, jaw falling open so slightly. 

“I know you’re scared of me getting hurt,” she started. “And I know that you blame yourself for Ord Mantell. But Stiles,” she paused, squeezing his hand, pressing closer to him, “if you went back there, to Jackson, and got captured, or killed, or— I don’t even  _ know;  _ something horrific—” Lydia shook her head, meeting his eyes. 

“Okay,” he told her, stroking her cheek with his thumb. “Then I’ll stay here with you.” 

“Wait, really?” Lydia asked. “You won’t go back?” 

“Yeah, I won’t. Jackson can go screw himself,” Stiles shot back, his soft grin becoming his signature half-smirk, before fading into a serious expression. “I'm not leaving, Lydia. If you want me to stay, I'm not going anywhere.” 

A huge weight lifted itself from her shoulders. Lydia felt like laughing. Seriously, that was all it took? She should have listened to Scott  _ ages _ ago. 

This stupid,  _ stupid _ boy had her in a state of constant turmoil and worry for the past few weeks _ , _ threatening to leave her, and all of a sudden she told him she needed him and he assured her he'd stay? 

She did the only thing that seemed natural. She hit his bare chest. 

“Ah—ow!” he cried, looking deeply offended. “What the hell was that for?” 

“You— you  _ nerf!” _ she spat. “I have been stressing for  _ weeks _ over you leaving, and trying to figure out how to tell you I have feelings for you, and I finally tell you I need you and  _ now _ you say you're not going anywhere?” 

“Wait— what?” Stiles said, bewildered. “Seriously? Why didn’t you just tell me you didn’t want me to leave?” 

“Because I’m  _ scared,  _ Stiles!” she retorted, and he finally sobered. She took a breath, looking at him again. The emotion in his eyes was overwhelming. 

“This isn’t just—” she started, trailing off, unsure how to convey what she wanted to say. “You’re so important to me, Stiles,” Lydia breathed, almost a whisper. “And I know that if we’re  _ something—”  _ She shook her head again.  

“I lost my whole  _ world,”  _ she continued, hoping she could explain this right. “My planet, my home, my culture, my friends, my entire family. I command troops and send them out to their deaths in impossible battles against the Empire. I receive mission summaries detailing soldiers that didn't make it on a weekly basis.” She stared right into his eyes. “I have lost everything I loved. I can't lose anything else.” She swallowed. “And I am  _ terrified _ of losing you. You are my best friend, and literally the only thing I have left.” 

All the anger had seeped out of his eyes.  _ “Lydia,”  _ he whispered, and her name sounded like a prayer on his lips. 

“Stiles,” she responded, staring right into his eyes. “I— I thought, maybe if we didn't do— whatever  _ this _ is... Maybe I would be okay. Maybe, when you actually  _ did _ leave, I'd make it through.” Her green eyes locked on his. “But I won't.” He reached his hand up to her face, stroking her cheek with his thumb. Lydia let out a little breath, still trapped in the sincerity of his eyes. “I'm terrified, Stiles,” she confessed. “I— it scares me how much I need you. I _ cannot _ lose you.” 

“You don't have to,” he said, giving her a small smile and covering her hand with his. “I'm not going anywhere, okay? If you want me to stay, I will stay here forever.” 

Hearing those words come out of his mouth, it felt like all the weight, all the worry, all the fear that had been accumulating ever since she had started feeling this way about Stiles— everything melted away. She smiled at him, big and genuine, and the smile he gave her back broke her heart, it was so beautiful— full of adoration and warmth and  _ promise _ — he was  _ staying,  _ he wasn't going anywhere—

Grinning, he leaned in, capturing her lips with his again, kissing her eagerly. Lydia sighed into his mouth, reveling in the feeling of his lips on hers, his hands circling around her waist— he pulled her into his lap, kissing her breathlessly, and Lydia felt the galaxy around them fall into place. 

This kiss was even better than the first, even better than the second or third or fourth. It was warm and loving and full of promise, and his words rang in her head:  _ If you want me to stay, I will stay here forever. _

What had she possibly done to deserve this man? 

She could practically feel her seams and cracks sealing up again. This stupid, scruffy-looking  _ scoundrel _ had somehow wormed his way into her heart, but in doing so, he had accidentally helped to heal her. 

That night, she slept more soundly than she had since they'd set out for Bespin.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I'd first like to apologize for the impromptu month long hiatus I just took! First it was the Christmas fics, and then it was just life getting in the way-- I moved to California for the semester this past weekend, so coordinating for that has consumed my every waking minute.
> 
> As apology, here are two new chapters tonight! There will probably be two more up either tomorrow or Friday as well-- and I'm gonna apologize in advance for the updates being later at night now, because I'm on pacific time now. 
> 
> I'd love to know what you think! Enjoy!

Moving rocks had become marginally easier, but still not as effortless as it was for Talia. 

Scott had gotten his warning loud and clear in that cave: he was getting dangerously comfortable with his anger, and letting it control the rest of his emotions. The problem was, it was so difficult to get rid of. He was  _ trying _ to shift using the right emotions— compassion, selflessness, all that— but after three years of fighting in a fruitless war and watching hundreds of soldiers die, and thousands of families torn apart, it was becoming difficult to banish his bitterness with the Empire. 

A small rock softly thumped off of his shoulder, and Scott's head snapped up, his eyes meeting Talia's gaze. He realized he'd been zoning out again, and he gave her an apologetic wince. 

“Sorry,” he said, glancing down at the rock he was supposed to be moving. It sat still on the ground, completely motionless. 

“What's wrong, Scott?” Talia asked him, and he glanced up again, looking right at the Alpha wolf. 

“Nothing, just—” he paused, glancing away. “Ever since that cave, I've realized I'm channeling the Force wrong. Letting my anger and hatred control my other emotions, all that. But I can't get rid of my anger with the Empire,” he explained. “After everything I've seen in this war, I can't forgive them.” 

“You don't have to forgive them,” Talia assured him. “I know it's so much easier to give into hate,” she continued. “Let the anger consume you and power you. But that only leads to the dark side.” She looked right at him. “You need to let go of your anger. I know you can't erase it, and I'm not asking you to. But forget about your fear, and your anger, and everything else. Forget about the Empire, and think about the  _ galaxy.”  _

Scott closed his eyes, trying to do just that. He thought back to that almost forgotten lesson with Derek three years ago, before his life had been submerged into the Rebellion. He tried to block his anger with the Empire, focus on the good things he could do for the galaxy _ after _ their demise, not just his hatred for the destruction they were causing now. He remembered his mom and dad, Derek, Lydia's world, and focused on his compassion for the others in the galaxy who had lost everything. Alderaanian survivors, war orphans, soldiers,  _ everyone _ . He forgot about his fear and anger for a minute and cleared his mind completely. 

When he opened his eyes, he could feel them burning brighter than they ever had before. 

“Woah,” Scott said, looking at Talia again. She gave him a small smirk. 

“Try now,” she said, gesturing to the stone. Scott focused his mind on moving it across the clearing, and it was moving, soaring towards Talia through the air, and he almost laughed with exhilaration. Scott turned his attention to a larger stone on the ground, and then it was hovering above the ground along with the first one. Soon all the rocks in the clearing were suspended in midair, and Artoo, hovering on the edge of the clearing like he often did during Scott's training sessions, beeped in excitement. Scott turned to his astromech droid, sticking out his hand, and then Artoo was floating up in the air, beeping in alarm. 

“There you go,” Talia said, a hint of pride in her voice. Scott lowered Artoo and the stones back down to the ground, looking at Talia again. 

“Is that it?” he asked, only partly serious. “I can move rocks; does that mean I'm a Jedi now?” 

She laughed, louder and clearer than he had ever heard her laugh before. “You have a  _ long _ way to go, Scott.” 

For the first time since he'd arrived on Dagobah, that statement didn't seem so daunting anymore. 

***

If Stiles thought Lydia wearing his shirt was distracting, Lydia wearing  _ just _ his shirt was pure torture. 

She'd just put it on, too— strode right over to his drawer this morning, his blanket still wrapped around her, plucked it from his drawer, shrugged off the blanket, and buttoned up the shirt. It was too long on her to be scandalous or anything— its hem brushed her mid thighs, but still—  _ distracting.  _

_ Kest,  _ he was so in love with her. 

He was  _ trying _ to focus on their breakfast, since he was frying up the last few eggs they had, and he  _ really _ didn't want to burn them. Lydia was sitting on the counter next to him, her cup of black caf clutched in her hands. Stiles had added the last couple drops of blue milk to his cup, so he took a sip, still watching the eggs, and savored the last good cup of caf he'd have for the next week and a half, when he was forced to drink it black. Lydia teased him for liking his caf to taste more like sugar than actual coffee, but he couldn't stand the bitter taste of the unaltered black liquid. It brought him back to his Academy days.  

“Do  _ not _ let those eggs burn,” Lydia reminded him, pointing a commanding finger at the pan. He obediently put down his caf, flipping the eggs over before they could be scorched. 

He glanced back at her then, and his heart skipped a beat, just because—  _ her _ . She was wearing his shirt, her long hair in a sloppy braid down her back, little curls framing her face, and the look in her green eyes, as she caught his stare and gave him a coy grin— in all the years he'd been following her around like a lovesick puppy, hoping someday she would reciprocate— until now, he'd never guessed how amazing it would feel when she actually  _ did _ admit she felt the same as him. 

Lydia arched an eyebrow at him, and he couldn't resist her; she was like a drug, the most addictive spice in the galaxy— in a second, his arms were around her, and she was pressed up against the cabinets of the tiny galley, kissing him back hungrily. 

“Stiles,” she breathed, pulling away from him briefly. He could hear the want and affection in her voice. His eyes were still closed, their foreheads pressed together, and he could feel her frantic heartbeat underneath his palms. 

“Turn the light under the eggs off.” 

He groaned, quickly untangling himself from her to turn off the stove, rushing back to her after saving their breakfast. She grinned at him, and then his lips were on hers again. 

“They're gonna get cold,” she whispered, but she didn't really seem to care, because she was pulling Stiles's shirt off of him. 

“To hell with the eggs,” he responded, lifting his arms up to make her job easier. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him closer to her. His hands slipped under her— _ his—  _ shirt, running up her bare back. 

If anyone had told him, before this ridiculously failed evacuation mission had begun, that within three weeks he'd have seen Princess Lydia Organa without clothing on  _ multiple _ occasions, he would have laughed them into another galaxy. 

Now he just nuzzled his face into her neck, breathing in the sweet scent of her. 

“We don't really have to get to the rendezvous point, right?” he whispered into her skin. She laughed at him. “Let's just stay here. Drift through hyperspace forever. The Rebellion doesn't really need you to function anyway.” 

Lydia laughed again, before winding her fingers into his hair. “Yeah, okay, hotshot.” 

Stiles smiled at her before kissing her again, his fingers simultaneously undoing the buttons on the front of her flannel, before sliding it off of her. Lydia sighed at his touch, and his heart leapt into his throat at the expression in her eyes— wanting, needing,  _ adoring.  _

“Princess Lyd— oh, my!” 

Lydia jumped a foot off the counter at the sound of Threepio's voice in the doorway. 

“Oh, sith!” she yelped, cowering behind Stiles. He turned to face the intruder. 

“Get out, Goldenrod!” Stiles hissed, throwing a deathly glare at the droid. Lydia hastily grabbed Stiles’s flannel off the counter, fumbling to put it back on. 

“Oh yes, of course— I'm so sorry—” His tinny voice trailed off as Stiles physically shoved the droid from the galley. 

“Oh stars,” Lydia mumbled, her face as red as her hair and buried in her hands. Stiles returned to in front of her, prying her hands away from her face and taking them in his. “Oh, kriffing  _ hell _ . He's going to tell everyone on base about this. Everyone in the Rebellion is going to know we were walked in on by a droid while we were half naked in the galley of your dilapidated ship!” 

“Lydia,” Stiles sighed, kissing her simply to shut her up. “Don't insult my ship.” 

She looked at him with wide green eyes, still a little too full of panic.

“I can erase his memory,” Stiles suggested. 

“No,” Lydia grumbled, looking dejected. “He's got lots of important military plans stored on him. If anything went wrong and we lost those, we'd be screwed.” 

Stiles shrugged. “Well, then I guess we'll have to live with the base knowing. Isaac will be psyched, he's gonna make a ton of money off the rest of Omega Squadron.” 

Lydia let her head fall onto his chest. “I can't believe they were all betting on us like pod races.” 

Stiles smirked at her. “Really? I can.” She laughed at him. 

“Well, you know what's good?” Stiles continued. “Threepio won't come anywhere near here for the rest of the day.” 

She grinned at him coyly. “I guess that is a silver lining,” she whispered, snaking a hand around his neck, pulling him in closer to her and kissing him again. 

If this was going to be how they spent their time, Stiles hoped they never reached Bespin. 

***

Four weeks, three days, and eleven standard hours after leaving Hoth, the Millennium Falcon finally reached Bespin. 

Lydia had never been more relieved in her life. Despite them not really knowing what they were getting into here— or if Danny would even welcome Stiles graciously, as they hoped— Lydia was beyond excited at the prospect of getting off the Falcon. Drifting through open space for such a long time had made her feel hopelessly small, a tiny blip in the scope of the almost infinite galaxy. The prospect of having a planet beneath her again was a ridiculously comforting thought. And while spending time with Stiles had  _ certainly  _ been pleasurable, the lack of anything to do had been eating at her, slowly but surely.

All her free time made her worry about Scott. 

They had no idea where he was, who he was with, if he had found the person he was supposed to be learning from, if he was becoming a Jedi— Lydia just knew he was alive. She could feel it, a constant certainty in her gut, and while she didn't know where he was, she  _ knew _ he was okay. She was positive. 

“No, I  _ don't _ have permission to land, that's what I'm trying to  _ tell _ you,” Stiles snapped into the Falcon's commlink. Two ships had flagged them down as soon as they had entered Bespin’s atmosphere, and were trying to arrest them, apparently. At this point Lydia was past caring; she just needed to walk on solid ground again. 

“I'm looking for my friend, Danny Mahealani,” Stiles said. “Tell him it's Stiles Solo, and we need help.” 

Chewie growled something to Stiles that she only caught parts of. Stiles's face paled. “Yeah, well that was a long time ago,” he responded. “Hopefully he forgot about that.”  

Lydia rolled her eyes. She could just sense this was going to be a disaster. 

“Okay,” the other ship said over the comms. “Proceed to landing platform 109. You're cleared.” 

“See?” Stiles said, turning to Lydia. 

She threw her hands up in surrender. “I didn't say anything.” 

Stiles guided the Falcon towards the landing platforms, touching down on one. Lydia couldn't get off the ship fast enough. She followed Stiles and Chewie down the ramp, C-3PO trailing behind them. 

There was no denying this part of Bespin was beautiful. Stiles said the city Danny ran was named Cloud City, and it was easy to see why— all the buildings were built miles above the planet itself, suspended in the clouds, and made of gleaming white and silver, with huge, sparking glass windows everywhere. It was evident why there were so many windows, because the clouds themselves were breathtaking. They were unlike anything Lydia had seen, on Alderaan or Coruscant or any planet: all different pastel shades of pink and orange and yellow and purple— it was like someone had watercolor-painted the sky. 

The landing platform they had touched down on ended in a closed door into a building. No one waited at the end. They were completely alone on the platform. 

“No one to greet us!” Threepio remarked. “How rude.” 

Lydia rolled her eyes at the droid, though her feeling of uneasiness wouldn't leave. “I don't know, Stiles,” she said, worrying her lip. “I've got a bad feeling about this.” 

Stiles glanced at her and opened his mouth to say something, but the door at the end of the platform slid open, revealing a group of people behind it. The leader was a man with dark hair, a swishing cape hanging off his shoulders. His dark eyes were narrowed, and his gaze was fixed on Stiles as he walked down the platform towards them. 

“See?” Stiles said to Lydia. “It's my friend.” 

Lydia rolled her eyes at him, as Stiles whispered to Chewie, “Keep your eye on him, okay?” Chewie growled in agreement. 

“Danny!” Stiles called, walking towards the man. Danny stopped a couple feet in front of him, his arms crossed over his chest and a scowl on his face. 

“What are you doing here, Stiles?” he asked, raising his eyebrow. Lydia could tell from his tone of voice he was already exasperated. 

“I, uh, was in the area,” Stiles responded. “And I kind of need a favor.” 

Lydia could have sworn she saw Danny roll his eyes. “You think after everything you did to me,  _ now _ I'm gonna help you?” 

_ “What?”  _ Stiles looked aghast. “What did I ever do to you?” Danny opened his mouth to answer, but Stiles cut him off. “You know what, don't answer that.” 

“You really shouldn't be here, Stiles,” Danny insisted. “I can't help you.” 

Stiles's grin vanished, before reappearing, but this time much more menacing and slightly deranged. Lydia knew that face. That was the face he had when he had come up with a plan. 

“So how's Jackson?” Stiles asked. Danny's face froze. “You seen him lately? Does he know about this place? I bet he'd be all over all the gases you export from here.” 

Danny scowled at Stiles. “You're a horrible person.” 

Stiles just shrugged. “I know, it keeps me awake at night.” He gave his friend a hopeful look. “So, about that favor?” 

Danny just stared at Stiles, and Lydia truthfully though Danny was about to throw Stiles off the landing platform. Instead, he tipped his head back and laughed. 

“Gods, you haven't changed a bit,” Danny remarked, now smiling at Stiles. Stiles grinned back, as the other man pulled him into a hug, slapping him on the back. “It's good to see you.” 

Stiles's grin widened as they broke their hug. “Good to see you too, man.” 

Danny leaned over Stiles's shoulder, waving to Chewie. “Hey, Chewbacca,” he called. “You still hanging around with this loser?” Chewie howled with laughter. 

Lydia stepped out from beside Chewie, walking up to Stiles and taking his hand. 

“Hi,” Danny said, sticking his hand out to shake hers. “Who are you?” 

“Lydia,” she supplied, taking his hand hesitantly.

“Danny Mahealani,” he responded, smiling kindly at her. “I'm the administrator of this facility,” he added, though she was still a little skeptical about him. “And this is my partner, Allison Argent.” 

Lydia watched as a girl with dark hair stepped forward from the group behind them, though Stiles seemed to be distracted, asking Danny something else and not really listening. Unlike her partner, she was dressed more sensibly— no flashy cape, just a simple dress and a  _ killer _ jacket. Her face was hardened and stoic, though she smiled slightly at Lydia, who smiled back. 

“So, what favor do you need?” Danny asked, beginning to walk down the landing strip, back to the door he entered from. 

“Repairs on the Falcon,” Stiles replied, following him, still holding Lydia's hand. 

“What did you do to my ship?” Danny asked Stiles, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. 

Stiles's eyebrows raised halfway up his forehead.  _ “Excuse _ me?  _ Your _ ship?” He stopped walking, crossing his arms and giving Danny a look he generally reserved for when he was sassing Lydia. “I won her from you fair and square, thank you.” 

Danny snorted. “I don't know about fair and square.” He began walking down the landing strip, leading them towards the door.  ”What's wrong with her, though?” 

“Hyperdrive,” Stiles grumbled. 

“I'll have a team get to work on it,” Danny said, opening the door and allowing them through. He followed them into a gleaming white hallway, glass windows displaying the dreamlike clouds outside. 

“Thanks, man,” Stiles said, squeezing Lydia's hand. She still felt uneasy about this. Danny and Allison seemed nice enough, but that didn't necessarily mean they were trustworthy. Lydia felt something, something dark about this place. She wasn't sure what, but by now she'd learned to trust her instincts on these things. However, until the Falcon got fixed, there was no way they could get out of here and still evade the Empire. 

She squeezed Stiles's hand harder. 

***

Apparently, meditating was a large part of being a Jedi. 

Now Talia had Scott meditating daily to clear his head and help channel the Force. It made shifting significantly easier, so much that he really wanted to ask her why they hadn’t _ started _ with that, but he knew Talia would probably throw him a glare and give him some cryptic reasoning, so he just trusted that she probably knew what she was doing. 

“The more in tune with the Force you are during meditation, the more you can see,” Talia said. Scott kept his eyes closed, though he nodded his head to show he was listening. “When you are linked to the Force, things become more clear. You can see things that once were, and things that will be. You can feel others linked through the Force, too.” 

That reminded him of Lydia and her powers. She'd known that they were alive during the snowstorm— was this the same thing? 

He was just about to open his mouth to ask Talia about Lydia, when suddenly, she appeared in his head. 

She was still in her snowsuit from Hoth, though her hair was different. She was in a dark room, crumpled against a glass wall, Stormtroopers framing either side of her, holding her wrists roughly and forcing her to watch something. She was sobbing, and the pain radiating off of her— he could feel her agony and distress and pure, primal fear. Everything was echoey and shadowy, but he could swear he heard a voice that sounded like Stiles's, crying out in agony, echoing off the walls. 

Scott's eyes snapped open, the peace from his meditation shattered in pieces on the forest floor. He stared at Talia, horror painted on his face. From the knowing look in her eyes, he could tell she knew what he had just seen. 

“What was that?” Scott said, horrified. 

“The future,” Talia said cryptically. “Your friends have walked into a trap. You just saw the consequences of that.” 

Scott jumped to his feet. “I have to go help them,” he insisted. 

“You shouldn't leave, Scott,” Talia insisted. “You have to finish your training.” 

“Stiles and Lydia are the only two people I have left in the  _ galaxy,”  _ Scott snapped, turning towards Artoo. “I'm not letting anything happen to my friends.” 

“You know who’s there, Scott.” Derek's voice sounded from behind him. Scott whipped around, coming face to face with his ghost— he was bluish and translucent and definitely not a hallucination this time. 

“How are you—” Scott began, but Derek cut him off. “Vader's there. And you've come a long way since you started training, but you're not ready to face  _ that _ yet.” 

“I don't  _ care,”  _ Scott insisted. “I'm not just going to stand by and let my friends get hurt when I could be  _ helping _ them.” 

Talia looked like she was ready to protest, but Scott wasn't budging on this. Lydia and Stiles joked about his hero complex, but he wasn't going to sit here, completely out of danger, while they were tortured and killed by the Empire. 

“Where are they, Artoo?” Scott asked the droid. He and Chewie had installed a tracker on the Falcon, unbeknownst to Stiles, so that if Chewie and Stiles ever got into trouble somewhere on a Rebellion mission, Scott could know where they were. He should have disabled it when Stiles had left for Tatooine, but it had slipped his mind, with the rushed evacuation. 

Artoo beeped their location to Scott, who looked at the droid confusedly. “Cloud City, Bespin?” He tried to process why in the galaxy they'd be there. “Why are they still in the Anoat system? Why aren't they near the rendezvous point?” Artoo beeped back, annoyed, because obviously  _ he _ didn't know the answer. “Whatever, it doesn't matter. Let's go.” 

Scott started to head for the marsh he'd initially landed in, where his X-Wing was, forgetting Talia and Derek were still in the clearing with him. He turned back to the Alpha wolf, and though her face was her usual mask of composure, he could sense hints of desperation in her wise eyes. He was the last hope for the Jedi, and he was leaving. 

“I'm sorry,” Scott said again. “I'll come back after and finish my training, I promise. But they're my friends. I have to help them.” 

She bowed her head in defeat before glancing back up at him. “Then go,” she said quietly, clasping her hands in front of her, her long brown robes swishing against the forest floor. Scott gave her one more apologetic look before turning back to Artoo. “Lead the way, buddy,” he told the droid, who promptly began to roll away from the clearing, back into the thick vegetation of the forest. Scott followed behind him, glancing back at the clearing one more time. He knew he should stay and finish what he had started, that he wasn't strong enough to fight Vader yet, but he didn't care. After everything Stiles and Lydia and Chewbacca had done for him, everything the four of them had been through, there was nothing in the galaxy that could keep him from running to help them. 

Out of earshot, Scott didn't hear the conversation that followed his departure.

“We can't just let him go,” Derek protested, moving to go after Scott. 

“We can't force him to stay,” Talia insisted, though she was clearly aggravated. Derek tipped back his ghostly head in frustration. 

“Master Talia, he’s our last hope,” Derek insisted. Talia shook her head at him. 

“No, he's not. Don't forget, there  _ is _ another.” 

Derek shook his head. “No. I've seen her, and her powers aren't like ours. They're different; completely something else.” 

Talia shrugged. “Different, yes. But still powerful. She, too, bears the name Skywalker.  _ She's _ our last hope.” 


	13. Chapter 13

Lydia was pacing again. 

They'd been in Cloud City for a couple hours now, and she was just getting more and more uneasy as the time went on. 

No one had seen C-3PO since they left the landing platform. They'd turned a corner, heard a crash, and he'd simply disappeared. Danny had acted like it was nothing, and Stiles was acting all happy-go-lucky, thrilled at being reunited with his friend, and completely ignoring her premonitions. It was driving her insane that he was brushing her off like this. So when Danny had offered Stiles a tour and Lydia a shower and a fresh change of clothes, she'd jumped at the chance. 

She was alone in one of the suites now, thinking the whole situation over. Sure, the city was beautiful and Danny and Allison were friendly and the people here were welcoming, and they hadn't seen any evidence of Imperial plots, but something just wasn't sitting right with her. 

Between her gut feeling and the disappearance of Threepio, she couldn't shake the feeling that they had just walked into a horrible trap. 

Chewie had sensed how uneasy she was, even if Stiles was oblivious, and had offered to go looking for Threepio. So now she was alone, left completely with her uneasy thoughts. 

The shower had been nice, though. After living in space on the Falcon for nearly a standard month with very limited water supply, she had reveled in a hot, steamy shower before dressing in the new clothes Allison had lent her. They were beautiful— a silky, rust colored dress with matching leggings and flat shoes, with a cream colored sleeveless robe to go over it, the bottom of the robe heavily embroidered in beautiful circular patterns. She'd redone her clean hair, separating it in half and putting half up in a bun, then braiding the rest and looping the two braids under the bun. It was a hairstyle her mother had taught her, and she hadn't worn her hair like that since she'd last been on Alderaan. 

Lydia heard the door to the room slide open behind her. She whipped around from the window, the beautiful clouds now dark, as the sun had set, but relaxed when she saw it was just Stiles. He must have returned from his tour of the facility. 

“Stiles,” she breathed in relief, moving towards him. He was frozen in the doorway, slack-jawed. “What?” she demanded. “Did something happen?” 

He snapped out of his daze. “No,” he said, “You just look really beautiful. Sorry.” 

She rolled her eyes at him, but she felt a blush creep onto her cheeks. “Compliment me later, flyboy. Did you see anything while Danny was showing you around?” 

He moved into the room, grabbing her hand and leading her over towards the couch. “No. Everything looks perfectly fine.” 

She sighed, sitting down next to him. “I don't know. I've just got this— this premonition, that something isn't right.” 

She turned towards him, looking him right in the eye. “And no one's heard  _ anything _ about Threepio, everyone I ask just brushes me off— he's been gone too long for him to have just gotten  _ lost—”  _

Stiles made a face. “Is it necessarily a  _ bad _ thing that he's gone?” 

She scowled at him.  _ “Yes.”  _

“I'm just saying,” he said. “Anytime we're alone together, he seems to pop up. Don't worry, he'll probably show up in a minute.” 

“Chewie offered to look for him,” Lydia said. “I'm just worried— about him, about Scott—” 

“I'm sure Scott's fine,” Stiles reassured her. He was getting closer to her. “Stop worrying so much, okay? It'll all be fine.” 

He leaned in to kiss her, and while she was still on edge, she wasn't going to deny herself that. He pulled away a second later, his forehead resting on hers. “I'll have Danny have some people look for Threepio, okay?” 

Lydia stood up angrily. “No, I don't trust Danny!” she said, glaring at him. Stiles stood up next to her, and she craned her head back to maintain their eye contact.  _ Gods,  _ why did he have to be so much taller than her? 

“I don't necessarily trust him either,” Stiles supplied. “But he is my friend.” 

Lydia mused that if Stiles didn't trust someone he called his friend, he had a pretty messed up view of friendship. 

“I don't know, Stiles,” she said, sighing. “I just have a feeling that something isn't right. That we're missing something here.” 

“Hey,” Stiles said, placing his hands on her shoulders and leaning down to kiss her forehead. “Scott told me about your feelings. And what he thought they might be.” He looked her right in the eye, a little smile across his face that broke her heart with how much sincerity was in it. “You haven't been wrong yet, okay? So don't start doubting yourself now. And if it makes you feel better, I'll search this place all night until we find something.” 

She relaxed, his words soothing her. “Okay,” she agreed. She grabbed his hand, tugging him towards the attached bedroom. “Come on, let's get some sleep.” 

***

Thinking back on it now, Stiles realized two things: 

  1. This was a really bad idea, and 
  2. Lydia could literally get him to do anything she wanted. 



Lydia was sound asleep in their room, Chewie sprawled out on the couch in the living room, Threepio still nowhere to be found— and as much as Stiles hated the droid, he did admit, his disappearance was pretty suspicious. He was making good on his promise to Lydia to find out if Danny was really up to something. As much as he was enjoying being reunited with his old friend, he trusted Lydia's intuition, and if she said something was wrong, something was probably wrong. 

So Stiles crept silently down the halls of Cloud City, keeping an eye out for anything suspicious. 

Everything was empty. Everyone was clearly in bed by now, the city appearing deserted. The hallways that had seemed so bright and beautiful by day were creepy now, empty of their earlier commotion and hustle, the dark sky outside the windows casting eerie shadows on the sparkling white floors. 

Stiles didn't  _ see _ anything suspicious. But then again, if Imperial troops were going to ambush them, they wouldn't exactly be waltzing down the hallways. 

An idea struck him. Lydia kept every battle plan and strategy, every mission report, every bit of information about the Rebellion on her datapad. If he could find Danny's datapad— surely, if he was planning to double-cross them, something would appear on there. 

The only issue was that Danny's datapad was definitely in one place— with Danny. 

Stiles remembered where Danny's living quarters were from the tour earlier, so he changed directions, heading for his friend's rooms. It was in the same section of the building where he and Lydia were staying, and he crept silently past their room, heading for the door at the end of the hall. 

Reaching the door, Stiles gently turned the handle, hoping that the door was unlocked. It was, and he slowly pressed it open, sneaking into the room. He tried to close the door, but when he did, it creaked loudly. Stiles cringed, immediately freezing. He couldn't leave the door open, but if he woke Danny up— 

He slowly pushed the door closed, cringing at its low creaking noise. Finally it shut, and he turned to survey the room. It was a living room, similar to the one he and Lydia had in their suite. He moved towards the chest of drawers against the wall, looking over all the tables and other surfaces as he passed. There was no sign of a datapad. 

Stiles silently rifled through the drawers, but there was no datapad in there as well. 

Stiles glanced at the door that must have led to the bedroom. It had to be in there, with Danny. 

Praying Danny was still a heavy sleeper, Stiles crept into his bedroom. 

Danny was asleep in his bed in the center of the room. There was a dresser against one wall and a table with drawers next to the bed. Silently, Stiles crept to the dresser. 

He quietly sifted through the drawers, finding nothing but clothes. He froze momentarily, hearing Danny shift in his sleep. Danny turned over and kept snoring, so Stiles finished checking the dresser. Coming up with nothing, he turned to face the bedside table. It  _ had _ to be in there. 

Stiles sneaked over to the table, crouching down next to it. Danny was facing the other wall, but he was barely a meter away. 

Stiles opened the drawer, holding his breath. There were papers and files and other important looking documents in there. He sifted through the papers, coming up with nothing.  

“What are you doing?” Danny muttered, and Stiles's blood turned to ice. 

His friend had rolled towards him in his sleep, and his face was furrowed, his confused voice full of sleep. But Stiles noticed, Danny's eyes were still closed. He was still partially asleep. Maybe he could get out of this okay. 

“I'm... Nothing,” Stiles said in hushed tones. “I— this is a dream. You're dreaming.”

Danny seemed to accept this, because he fell silent. Stiles slid the drawer closed, opening the one below it. 

“Why are you going through my stuff?” Danny mumbled. Stiles glanced at his friend cautiously again. 

“Right— but only in the dream. You're dreaming.” He quietly rifled through the drawer, catching a glimpse of the datapad. Danny shifted again. “Dreaming,” Stiles reminded him, his voice high and what he hoped sounded dreamlike. 

Danny fell silent again, as Stiles grabbed the datapad, hitting the button at the bottom to wake it up. It lit up, prompting him to enter a password. He tried a few things— Cloud City, Bespin, even Falcon— but nothing worked. 

“Why would I dream about you going through my stuff?” Danny asked sleepily. Stiles snapped, glaring at the man. 

“I don't know that, Danny, okay? It's your dream. Take responsibility for it.” Stiles glanced down at the datapad again, which was still locked. “Now shut up and go back to sleep.” 

Danny rolled over to the other side of his bed, emitting a sigh that turned into a gentle snore. 

Stiles tried two more passwords before the datapad beeped at him, alerting him that one more incorrect password and it would be wiped clean. Stiles groaned, carefully turning it off and putting it back in the drawer. He slipped out of Danny's apartment silently, then practically raced down the hall, back to the suite he and Lydia were sharing. Lydia was fast asleep, curled up in the large, circular bed, the ornate quilt draped over her. Her long braid fell over her shoulder, and she was wearing one of his shirts, which swallowed her whole. Stiles toed off his shoes and climbed into bed next to her. Immediately she curled into his side, her green eyes cracking open blearily. 

“Did you find anything?” she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep. 

“No,” he sighed. “Nothing. I'm sorry.” 

“‘S alright,” she murmured, her eyes closing and her nose burrowing into the crook of his neck. He looped his arms around her, pulling her closer into his chest. She sighed into him, and the steady beat of her heart against his skin lulled him to sleep. 

***

The next morning, Lydia awoke and got dressed in her new clothes, an uneasy feeling still in her chest. 

“This is too weird,” she insisted as Stiles entered the living room. “There's still no sign of Threepio anywhere. You didn't find anything last night?”

“Nope,” he sighed, walking over and taking her hands. “Nothing.” 

The door opened, and a distressed growl alerted them to Chewie's entrance. 

“What's wrong?” Lydia asked, dropping Stiles's hands and hurrying over to the wookiee. She immediately saw, however, as Chewie dumped a crate on the ground. In it was Threepio, in pieces. 

“Oh,  _ sith _ ,” she whispered, taking in the disassembled droid. “What happened? Where did you find him?” 

Chewie growled. “A  _ scrap _ pile?” Stiles said incredulously, walking up behind Lydia. Chewie nodded. 

“I agree with Lydia,” Stiles said, taking her hand again and squeezing it. “I have a bad feeling about this.” 

“Do you think you can fix him, Chewie?” Lydia asked. The wookiee nodded his head. 

The door slid open again, revealing Danny behind them, in another jewel-colored cape, Allison at his side. They walked into the room, and Danny glanced at Threepio's pieces on the ground. 

“Having trouble with your droid?” he asked, shooting a concerned look at Stiles. Stiles's face remained nonchalant, but Lydia could see the muscles in his neck flex. “No, no trouble,” he replied. “It's fine.” 

Danny gave him a look, but didn't push. “Okay. Well, would you guys like some breakfast? You must be hungry.” 

Lydia glanced at Stiles, who looked down and met her eyes. Sure, she felt uneasy about this place, but she  _ was _ starving. The last time she had eaten real food was more than a month ago at Echo Base on Hoth. 

“Sure,” Stiles replied, glancing from Lydia to Chewie. “We're starving.” 

Lydia looped her arm around Stiles's, hand resting on his bicep. He looked down at her reassuringly, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Don't worry,” he whispered. Chewie set Threepio down on the floor, following them out the door. Danny led them down the hallway— it had been quiet and deserted last night when they arrived, but now it was full with the bustle of workers and citizens, lit up by the dazzling white clouds and blue sky outside the huge windows. 

Despite her hesitance about this place and Danny, her inner politician was curious. She'd never heard of Bespin or Cloud City, and she wondered how their colony worked. 

“So,” she asked, simply to break the awkward silence. “Stiles says you run a mining colony here.” 

Danny perked up at this. “Yeah, we do,” he said as they continued walking. “Mostly Tibanna gas. There's a lot of it here in the upper atmosphere, so we harvest it and then export it. It's used in hyperdrives, mostly, and weapons.”

“That must be pretty prosperous,” Lydia mused. “How did you get into the business? Stiles said he knew you from your smuggling days.” 

“That would be me,” Allison cut in. “My father is a weapons dealer, so Tibanna gas is something we use regularly. Danny used to do smuggling runs for my father. When he won Bespin in a Sabacc game—” Danny shrugged at Stiles’s catlike grin— “he asked me to come help run things.” 

“Interesting,” Lydia responded. “You’re part of the mining guild, right?” 

Stiles gave her a look, clearly bored from the conversation. 

“No, not actually,” Danny responded. “Our operation is small enough that we go pretty much unnoticed. Which is good for us, and for our customers. Most people buying Tibanna gas don't want a lot of attention drawn to themselves.” 

“I would assume,” Lydia said. “Since it's used in so many weapons, like you said, Allison... You're lucky the Empire hasn't noticed you yet. I'm sure they'd try to take control.” 

Danny swallowed, and that feeling of uneasiness flared in Lydia's stomach again. She squeezed Stiles's hand. 

“We've actually just made a deal that will keep the Empire out of here for a long time,” Danny said, glancing at them. He stopped in front of a door. “And will hopefully keep all the people in the city safe.” 

The door slid open, and Lydia's stomach dropped. 

Darth Vader was standing at the opposite end of the room. 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a second apology for the super long wait, here are two more chapters! I think there are only three chapters left? *laughs nervously because I haven't finished editing the ROTJ rendition yet* 
> 
> Enjoy!

Despite his terror, Stiles could practically  _ hear _ Lydia thinking  _ I told you so. _

The next time she had a hunch, he was taking it extremely seriously and following her intuition blindly. 

He knew what Vader looked like, obviously— he was on the Holonews all the time, and he'd seen him from a distance on the Death Star, but this was the closest he'd ever been to Vader in person. Lydia groped for his hand, and he seized her smaller hand in his, squeezing it in comfort. He could feel her fingers shaking violently, could practically feel the terror wafting off of her. He didn't care that Vader was supposedly all-powerful, indestructible, whatever— this person had hurt Lydia, damaged her deeply and permanently, and if Stiles had anything to do about it, this monster would pay for what he did to the girl clutching his hand like her life depended on it. 

Stiles immediately pulled out his blaster, firing off a shot and trying to shoot down Vader. But Vader stuck out his hand, stopping the bolt in mid-air, before Stiles's blaster flew out of his hand and directly into Vader's. Stiles froze. 

“I'm so sorry,” Danny said in a small voice behind them, as a crowd of Stormtroopers flooded the hallway behind them, blocking off any escape route. “They got here right before you did. I had no choice.” 

Stiles turned to glare at his friend. Danny looked defeated. 

Then a silky, sickly sweet voice echoed from behind Vader, and Stiles's blood turned to ice. 

“Hey, handsome,” purred the voice, as Kate Argent stepped out from behind Vader, her long blondish curls falling over her heavy body armor. She held a blaster in one hand, and her helmet under her other arm. 

“Kate,” Stiles spat, glaring at the bounty hunter. “How did you find us?” 

She laughed, her cold eyes narrowing. “Please, sweetie. I'm Jackson's favorite bounty hunter for a reason.” She stepped closer to them, her eyes darting to Allison, behind them. “Plus, I had my lovely niece on the lookout. We knew you were in this sector of the galaxy, and that you had connections to Danny.” She grinned poisonously. “Too easy, really.” 

“Argent,” Stiles hissed, realization dawning on his face. He turned to look at Allison, but she wouldn’t meet his gaze, steely eyes trained ahead. 

“I see your girlfriend survived,” Kate spoke up again, surveying Lydia. “It didn’t look too good when she was bleeding out on your ship.” 

“You stay away from her,” Stiles snarled, animalistic, gripping Lydia’s hand harder. “And tell Jackson to go to hell.” 

“Speaking of— he still wants to know where his money is,” Kate said, shrugging, her expression mockingly apologetic. 

“Kate, you can harass your catch later,” Vader said coldly. “For now— we have other things to attend to.” The door slid closed behind him, Lydia, Chewie, Danny, and Allison, trapping them in the room with Vader and Kate. 

Stiles could feel Lydia physically recoil next to him, and he shifted in order to subtly allow her to stand partly behind him. Despite the cool, hardened look on her face, he could feel her hand trembling in his. She always avoided speaking of what exactly had happened to her on the Death Star— he knew she'd been tortured, though to what extent he wasn't sure. The only thing he was positive of was that she'd been stuck with needles, and that Vader had forced her to watch him destroy her planet. Anything else Lydia kept strictly to herself, though if the way this monster cracked her tough outer shell and made her quake with fear, half hidden behind an unarmed smuggler, was any indication, Stiles could only imagine the horrors she'd endured. 

Lydia squeezed his hand, looking at him with terrified eyes. 

“It's okay,” he whispered to her. “It's gonna be okay.” 

He didn't necessarily believe his words to be true, but saying them helped ease some of the panic in her eyes, and that alone was worth it. 

***

Lydia thought waiting here was almost worse than when she'd been tortured on the Death Star. 

They had dragged them all to a dark, bare room on the opposite side of the facility from where they'd slept last night, dumping the crate filled with Threepio on the floor and locking the door. Maybe five minutes later, they'd seized Stiles and forced him from the room and down the hall. She'd been terrified of not knowing what they would do to him, but that hadn't remained an issue for long. They'd come and gotten her soon after, shoved her into an adjoined room, and forced her to watch as they tortured him. 

Lydia could still hear his screams echoing off the walls. 

The worst part was that there was physically nothing she could do. They'd dragged her from the room and put her back in this cell a little while ago, but they hadn't brought Stiles back yet. She was petrified of what had happened to him since they'd made her leave, leaving her feeling absolutely powerless— and she despised feeling weak. 

The door slid open, and two Stormtroopers appeared, half-dragging Stiles between them. They shoved him back inside the room, throwing him to the floor and slamming the door behind him. Lydia immediately raced over, but Chewie beat her there, pulling Stiles up from the ground and supporting his weight. 

“Are you okay?” Lydia asked, clutching at his torso. She helped Chewie guide him to a metal bench against the wall, before gently laying him down on it. 

“No,” Stiles replied, his voice strained and cracking. “I feel terrible.” 

Lydia smoothed his hair off his sweaty forehead, looking at his face more carefully. His eyes were red-rimmed, his skin pallid, and his lips dry and cracked. 

“They didn't even ask me any questions,” Stiles said, still sounding shell-shocked. “They just...”

Lydia silenced him with a brief kiss. She knew the horrors of the Empire's torture methods far too well. 

The door slid open again, and Lydia's head whipped towards it, a hand still on Stiles's shoulder. Danny was standing in the doorway, a worried look on his face. 

“What do you want?” Lydia spat, glaring at him. Stiles struggled to sit up. “Come to sell us out to another evil dictator? Is the Emperor showing up tonight?” 

Chewie roared in agreement. Danny's expression flickered from worry to anger. 

“I had no choice, okay? He was threatening the entire city. And when Kate found out Allison was here—” He glanced away from them. “And Vader promised he wouldn't hurt you.” 

Stiles snorted, somewhat sitting up, his back propped against the wall. “Yeah, we can see how that's been going.” 

“Vader wants us all dead,” Lydia spat back. 

“No, he doesn't want you,” Danny insisted. “He said something about some other person, someone named Skywalker—” 

“Scott,” Lydia breathed. She turned to Stiles, finally understanding. 

“But we don't know where he is,” Stiles told Danny. “He wouldn't tell us.” 

“But they didn't ask you any questions,” Lydia responded. “If they wanted to know where he was, wouldn't they have asked you that?” 

“Then they already know where he is,” Stiles realized, his face getting even paler.

“Look, I'm sorry,” Danny said, glancing down. “I never wanted to do this. And for the record, you getting tortured was not what I agreed to at all.” A commlink on him somewhere started beeping, and he turned to the door. “I have to go. But just so you know, I'm doing everything I can to make sure you get out of this.” 

“I'll believe that when I see it,” Stiles spat, glaring at his friend as he exited the room. The door slid shut behind him. 

“We have to do something,” Lydia breathed the second Danny was gone, her stomach full of dread. “We have to warn Scott.” 

“How are we supposed to do that?” Stiles asked. Chewie growled in agreement. _ “We _ don't know where he is.” 

“Well, Vader does, so we could follow him,” Lydia insisted. She was almost sure, Scott was the only hope for defeating Vader and the Emperor. If they found him first, and killed him... 

“The Falcon's hyperdrive still isn't working,” Stiles reminded her. 

“Well then we escape from here, and stow away on his ship.” 

Stiles gave her a look like she was crazy. “Lydia, that's a suicide mission.” 

“I don't care, Stiles!” she exclaimed. “We have to get out of here; we have to warn him!” 

“Lydia, I want to help him too, but getting yourself killed is not going to save him!” 

“Stiles, we need to  _ do _ something!” she insisted. 

“We need to slow down,” Stiles said instead. “Yes, obviously we need to help him, but— I feel like we’re missing something here.” 

Lydia looked right into his eyes, and while she heard every word, her mind was already racing, the gears in her head suddenly turning. 

“They didn’t even ask you anything,” she muttered, glancing away from Stiles briefly. He gave her a puzzled look as she met his eyes again. “They didn't ask you any questions,” she said at full volume. “If they know where Scott is, and they know we  _ don't _ know where Scott is, why catch us? If Vader  _ really _ only wants Scott, why pay Kate to hunt us down?” 

“And why torture me, threaten Cloud City, do all this, if they do know where he is? Why not just go  _ get _ him?” Stiles added. 

“They don't know where he is,” Lydia realized. “But they know he wouldn't tell us, he's too smart. So why—” 

“Lydia,” Stiles said, realization suddenly dawning across his face. “You know the feelings you get— whether we're alive, or in danger, or whatever? What if Scott could get those too, but he just doesn't know how yet?” 

“Go on,” Lydia said, nodding. 

Stiles glanced towards Chewie. “Remember when we were flying Scott and Derek to Alderaan?” Chewie gave an affirmative growl. Stiles continued. “When we were getting close, Derek sat down, and got really pale— he said he could feel everyone on Alderaan dying through the Force.” 

Lydia's breath caught. She relived that moment, watching the fiery carnage from the Death Star, seeing all the people below perish so senselessly, constantly in her dreams. She hadn't realized Derek had felt the same thing she had at that moment. 

Stiles turned back to Lydia. “Now Scott couldn't do that, not yet. But if he's been training, becoming more in tune with the Force— what if he can sense us?” 

“And feel that we're being tortured,” Lydia supplied, all the puzzle pieces falling into place. “And with Scott's hero complex, he'll come running straight for us, if he knows we're in danger.” 

“It's a trap,” Stiles finished. “And we're the bait.” 

Lydia felt like throwing up. 

Stiles looked at her, desperation in his eyes. “I know you don't know how to control your powers, but if Scott can feel our presence through the Force, do you think you can send a message to him through it?” 

“I don't know,” Lydia said truthfully. “But I can try.” 

“Just focus really, really hard,” Stiles said, squeezing her hand reassuringly. “And tell him to stay where he is. Don't come find us.” 

Lydia nodded, focusing all her efforts on sending her message to Scott. She tried to summon that electric buzz that Scott talked about whenever he channeled the Force. She focused all her energy on that and reaching Scott, chanting her message over and over again. 

_ Don't come find us. Don't come find us. Don't come find us. _

***

“This is ridiculous,” Danny insisted, walking quickly to keep up with Vader's long strides. Kate Argent ambled along next to him, her large blaster held loosely in her hand. She looked way too comfortable with the weapon for his liking. 

Vader ignored Danny, instead signaling for one of his Stormtroopers to open the door ahead of them. Danny shoved to the front of the crowd, keying in the security code to get into the room Vader had set his sights on. 

Danny led the party into the room beyond, where his Ugnaught workers were busy preparing the freezing chamber. Kate looked down at the short sentients— they barely reached her waist— with a look of disdain. Danny knew they weren't the prettiest species, with their porcine features and heavy jowls, but they were very good workers— not to mention the only ones who could fluently run the freezing chamber— so he didn't appreciate her haughty attitude. He hadn't liked Kate from what Allison had told him even  _ before _ she'd set foot on Bespin, but he was liking her even less now. 

“We use this chamber to freeze  _ gas,” _ Danny continued, addressing Vader. 

“The facilities are crude, but they'll do,” Vader countered. Danny almost growled in exasperation. 

“You can't carbon freeze a  _ person,” _ he insisted. “We use the carbonite to encase the gas; protect it and make it easier to transport. It's not designed for freezing sentients. If you put a person in there, he's gonna die.” 

“You  _ can _ carbon freeze a person, Mahealani,” Vader said darkly. “I've seen it done before. But, as your facility is designed for gas, we'll test it on someone else first. I do not want the Emperor's prize damaged.”

Vader turned to Kate. “Captain Solo should make a fine test subject.” 

Kate pulled a face. “But I need him  _ alive.  _ You said you only wanted him to use as bait for Skywalker, and that I could have him after.” 

“He will be fine,” Vader assured her. “And then Jackson will have a new trophy in his collection, and you will have my credits  _ and _ his.” Kate's grin at that statement was poisonous. 

“Wait a minute,” Danny interjected. “I thought you said you just wanted this Scott Skywalker. That Stiles and Lydia would be free to go after you have him.” 

“Well, I changed my mind,” Vader snapped.

“That's not what I agreed to when we let you in,” Danny protested. “Our deal was—” 

“I altered the deal,” Vader interjected. “Pray I don't alter it more.” 

Danny's mouth snapped shut. He could put on a brave facade all he wanted, but the truth was, Vader scared the hell out of him, and he had Imperial troops crawling all over the city. There was nothing Danny could do if he didn't want Vader to commit mass genocide. 

“Skywalker is on his way,” Vader informed them. “Tell your workers to ready the chamber for its test run on Captain Solo.” 

Danny turned towards the ugnaughts, relaying Vader's orders in their native tongue. They nodded in confirmation, before hurrying back to their work. 

“Go get Solo and the Princess,” Vader instructed some of his troopers. They turned and immediately left the room to fetch the prisoners. 

Dread gathered in the pit of Danny's stomach. He had to look out for his city, but at the same time, he couldn't stand by and watch his friend die in carbonite. 

He had to do something— only problem was, with Imperial troops and the Emperor's right hand man breathing down his neck, he wasn't sure exactly what he could do. 


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... I'm just gonna apologize in advance for this one.

Sometimes, Scott seriously wondered how his friends were so good at getting themselves in  _ massive _ amounts of trouble. 

Even from the air, Scott could see this place was crawling with Imperial troops— transport ships, TIE fighters, and other Imperial craft littered every single landing platform. He found one empty one far on the other side of the city, and he figured it must be a personal one, tucked away from the rest of the large platforms and out of sight. The moment he touched down he threw up the top of his X-Wing and jumped down onto the pearly white landing platform, marveling at the breathtaking clouds in the sky around him. He didn't have long to stare in wonder, though, because not even a second later, his head was splitting in pain. 

Scott doubled over, clutching his temple in pain at the screeching, reverberating sound echoing through his head. He almost missed Artoo cruising up next to him, beeping to ask if he was okay. 

Scott tried to respond, but then the noise in his head shifted from cries of pain to—  _ Lydia's voice _ ? 

It was definitely Lydia's voice, and she sounded desperate and terrified. She said the same four words over and over, echoing through his mind:  _ Don't come find us. Don't come find us. Don't come find us.  _

Scott closed his eyes, trying to reach out through the Force and find Lydia. His hearing heightened, and he could hear a thousand different heartbeats in the city— but then he heard her voice, lost and scared and so full of sadness, saying just one word:  _ “Stiles.”  _

Scott could hear her heart beating frantically, and next to her, Stiles's too, but he lost the rest of the conversation, hidden in the hundreds of other presences in the city. By the time he found her again, she wasn't speaking, though her heart was still racing. Scott tried to hear Stiles's next to her, but— his stomach dropped. Stiles's heartbeat, his whole presence in the Force— it was gone. 

Scott raced for the door, Artoo trailing behind him, desperate to get to Lydia. Her message played over in his head—  _ don't come find us—  _ but he didn't care. He was saving his friends if it was the last thing he did. 

***

Vader and his stormtroopers never returned to drag him away again, so Stiles figured they must have thought they reached Scott. 

He only hoped Lydia had gotten her message through to him first. 

The room they were being locked up in was freezing cold. They'd let Lydia change back into her snowsuit, at least, though she didn't wear the vest over it anymore. She sat next to Stiles on the metal bench, her head resting on his shoulder. Chewie was across the room, putting Threepio back together. He had connected his head to his torso, albeit backwards, as the droid was complaining very vocally about not being put together correctly. His arms were connected as well, though his legs still laid on the floor, separate from his body. 

“Oh, Chewbacca, what have you done? I can't see anymore!” Threepio cried in dismay. Chewie growled an aggravated response that was vulgar enough to shut Threepio up. 

Lydia sighed against Stiles's shoulder, her body shuddering. He wrapped an arm around her, smoothing her back comfortingly. He knew how reminiscent of the Death Star this was for her, and he was doing everything he possibly could to put her at ease. Stiles knew the situation was bleak and their chances of getting out of this weren’t looking good, but as long as Lydia got away, safe and unharmed— that was all he could ask for.  

“Do you think they're ever coming back?” she mumbled, glancing up at Stiles. 

He shrugged, and told her truthfully, “I don't know.” He grinned a little. “Maybe they just forgot we're here and they'll leave us alone.” 

She smiled back at him. “I hope.” 

Evidently he had spoken too soon, for the door slid open then, revealing four Stormtroopers. 

“Wishful thinking, then,” Stiles muttered, shifting to shield Lydia from them. Two of the Stormtroopers went to seize Chewie, who immediately lashed out at them. 

“Chewie, relax,” Stiles said. “They're armed, we're not. Go quietly.” He was too hungry and too tired for a fight. Hopefully they were just transferring them to somewhere else, not rounding them up for execution. He knew Vader wouldn't mind that, but hopefully Danny did have some say in the matter. Traitor or not, Stiles knew he probably  _ didn't _ have a choice when the Imperials showed up, and that hopefully his friend was staying true to his word and looking out for them. 

Chewie growled in quiet defeat, gathering up Threepio in a net that had been in the crate and slinging him over his back. The two other troopers took Stiles and Lydia, slapping binders on both of them. The other guards seemed too scared of Chewie to do anything other than grab his arms. 

The Stormtroopers led the group down the hall, in a different direction than both their previous rooms and the place they'd brought Stiles to torture him. 

Finally, they shoved them all into a wide chamber. The room was round and dimly lit, with pipes, wires, and machinery everywhere. In the center of the room was a circular metal grate, with a round platform in the middle that looked like it sunk into the ground. 

Darth Vader stood at the head of the room, more Stormtroopers flanking him on one side, Kate on the other. Danny and Allison stood to the side of them, their faces blank. 

“What's going on,  _ buddy?”  _ Stiles asked Danny, hoping his expression conveyed his anger at his friend. Danny glanced up at him, his expression still blank, though Stiles detected a hint of sorrow behind his eyes. 

“You're being put in carbon freeze,” Danny said quietly. “Scott's on his way here now, and Vader's testing the process on you before doing it on him.” Stiles froze. Everything in his body seemed to have stopped working. His blood froze, his brain stopped, his heart ceased beating. 

_ Carbon freeze.  _

He was almost positive no  _ being _ had ever been frozen in carbonite before. 

Even though their hands were shackled, Lydia grabbed his with both of hers. 

“Stiles,” she breathed, looking at him with more fear in her green eyes than he'd ever seen her show before— not on the Death Star, not on Hoth, not when she was dying on Ord Mantell—never. He thought back to that night in his bunk— he'd promised he'd never leave her. Well, now he was going to have to. Maybe forever. 

“But what if he doesn't survive?” Kate complained, glaring at Vader. “I know  _ you _ don't care about him, but Jackson does. He's worth a lot of money to me.” 

“The Empire will compensate you if he dies,” Vader responded. 

“Well, that makes me feel better,” Stiles muttered. 

Chewie howled, fighting against the troopers restraining him. “Stop it!” Stiles barked. His brain was working again. He knew what had to happen. “Listen to me, Chewie,” he continued. “You have to stay with Lydia, okay? Get her back to base. Make sure she's safe.” The wookiee howled, and Stiles gave him a little grin. “Don't worry about me, buddy,” he assured his copilot. He turned to Lydia. There were tears in her eyes. 

“Don't do it,” she whispered. “Stiles Solo, don't you dare leave me.” 

He gave her a sad little smirk. “I don't really have a choice, Princess.” 

“Stiles,” she whispered again, her eyes burning into his. He tried to memorize every detail of her face, every fleck in her green eyes, the elegant braids and the not quite red color of her hair, in case he never saw them again. 

“You don't need me, Lydia,” he whispered to her, so just she could hear. “You're so much stronger than that. You've been fighting this war by yourself the past three years. You don't need me to do that.” 

“No, Stiles, please—” she pleaded, tears pooling in her eyes. 

“Lydia, listen to me,” he insisted. “I'm not important. It doesn't matter what happens to me, okay? You're what's important.” 

“No, Stiles, you do matter,” she whispered. “You matter to me.” She gave him a watery smile. “If I lose you, I'll go out of my freaking mind.” 

He gave her a little grin, remembering that argument between them in a snowy corridor of Hoth, in what seemed like a different lifetime. Still, she needed to walk away from this. He didn't. 

“You get out of here, okay?” he told her. “Find Scott. Warn him. Get back to base, and then take these bastards down.” 

She nodded at him, their eyes still locked. He squeezed her hands. “You end this war. And you fight like hell.” 

“Okay,” she whispered, nodding her head and blinking back her tears. He looked at her, tilting his head a little, taking her in. There was one more thing he needed to tell her.

“Just remember,” he said, pausing for a second. “Remember I love you.”

Her expression melted, and now she really looked like she was going to cry—before she could say anything, he leaned in and kissed her— if he was going to die today, it would be with the memory of her lips on his. She kissed him back, desperately, until two Stormtroopers grabbed his arms and physically dragged him away. They placed him in the center of the metal grate, on the circular platform that lowered, before removing his binders and stepping away. 

Lydia stood next to Chewie, the wookiee's hand on her shoulder. Her expression was almost unreadable— pain, fear, sadness, and something else. The platform below him began to slowly lower, bringing him into the freezing chamber. His heart was pounding faster than he thought possible. 

His eyes locked with Lydia's. He could practically see her brain whirring. And then she stepped away from Chewie, towards the opening, and opened her mouth, her big, green eyes still boring into his.

“I love you,” she said, and Stiles's heart pounded even faster. 

He could see the fear in her eyes, and could practically hear what she was thinking. She thought she was too late, that he didn't really know the magnitude of her feelings for him— but he did. He knew she loved him. He knew how scared she was of losing him, how afraid of commitment losing her planet had made her. She'd never had to say the words out loud for him to know they were true. But he could see in her eyes, she was terrified he hadn't known. 

He had. Ever since Ord Mantell he’d known, though she'd never said it out loud. 

“I know,” he told her, reassuring her that he knew exactly how she felt. He felt the platform continue to lower, and for once, he actually had to look up to her to maintain eye contact. 

He gave her a small little smile, a tiny, reassuring nod, to tell her it was okay. He was fine. And as long as she got out of here safe, he  _ would _ be fine. 

The platform lowered enough that he could no longer see her. His heart pounded, his thoughts raced, terrified of what happened next. He felt the platform stop moving. 

Then he felt a giant force push against him, then nothing at all.

The last conscious thought Stiles had was of Lydia. 

***

Lydia's head was spinning. 

In a matter of minutes, he was gone— she had lost him. 

She could still almost see his eyes, the moment they'd pulled him away from her. The unmistakable fear that flitted across his face as the platform began to lower. The way the shadows cast across his cheekbones as he sunk into the freezing chamber. She could still hear his last words— they lingered in the room, almost as if she could reach out and pluck them from the air. 

_ I know.  _

He knew that she loved him. 

“Is he  _ alive?”  _ she suddenly heard Kate snap, and the bounty hunter's poisonous voice ripped her out of her reverie. 

Vader gestured to the Ugnaughts working the controls, and the beings hit some buttons, lowering a large claw into the freezing pit. The claw slowly emerged, bringing with it a large slab of carbonite. 

Lydia almost vomited when she saw the front. 

Stiles's face protruded from the front, covered in a layer of carbonite and frozen in an expression of extreme pain. From his knees to his torso also stuck out of the smooth slab of carbonite, though just barely. Both his hands, however, extended out far above the slab, out straight, as if to protect himself. 

The workers hurried over to examine the slab, and Lydia noticed the panels and buttons along the side of the block. The workers said something to Danny in their native language. Danny turned to Vader, his face ashen, and told him, “He's alive.” 

“Chewbacca, turn around, I can't  _ see!”  _ C-3PO exclaimed. The wookiee roared, but finally turned, allowing the droid to see. 

“Oh, my!” Threepio exclaimed. “Captain Solo has been frozen in carbonite! Well, he'll be very well protected, Princess Lydia.” 

Lydia didn't have the heart to yell at the droid. She still felt empty inside. 

“Put him on your ship,” Vader said, addressing Kate. “And reset the freezing chamber for Skywalker.” He turned to the Stormtroopers next to Lydia and Chewie. “Take them and put them on my ship.”

“But you said they would be free to go!” Danny cut in angrily. “You told me you just wanted Skywalker, not Stiles and Lydia too!” 

“So you think you're being treated unfairly?” Vader asked, and though Lydia picked up on the subtle condescension, Danny either didn't notice or didn't care. 

“Yeah!” Danny continued. “Taking them prisoner was never in our agreement, and neither was handing over Stiles to this bounty hunter! You can't just—” 

“Enough, Mahealani, unless you'd like to  _ join _ them on my ship,” Vader replied, cutting him off. Danny quieted, though his outrage still showed on his face. 

Lydia glanced at Chewie, a plan already formulating in her head. She raised an eyebrow at him, hoping he was reading her mind. He nodded his head in agreement, and she gave him a little nod. 

The Stormtroopers grabbed them by the arm and shoved them out of the chamber, back into the bright hallway. Vader remained behind, while Kate barked orders at the Stormtroopers wrestling with Stiles's carbonite slab. 

Lydia waited until they were farther away from the chamber, so more Stormtroopers couldn't run to their aid. She glanced up at Chewie, who had his eyes trained on her. 

“Now!” she exclaimed, pulling her shackled arms up and elbowing the trooper holding her in the chest. He staggered back, alarmed, and she turned on him, kicking him in the knees. He fell back, slamming his head on the white wall, and stayed down on the floor, unconscious. 

Chewie had ripped his arms free of the two guards holding him, flinging one of them down the hall and knocking out the other with a few quick blows to the head. He growled in triumph when all the guards were down, grabbing their blasters and tossing one to Lydia. 

“Thanks,” she responded, catching the heavy blaster in her hands. “Let's get out of here.” 

They raced down the hall to the docking platforms— if they could get Stiles before he was taken by Kate, then they could unfreeze him right now. Lydia turned a corner, aiming her blaster forward in case they ran into anyone unpleasant, and almost ran into someone. 

She almost dropped her blaster in shock. It was  _ Scott.  _

“Lydia?” he exclaimed, skidding to a stop right in front of her. R2-D2 beeped from behind him, rolling into sight. 

“Scott, what are you doing here?” she yelped. “Didn't you get my message? I told you not to come find us!” 

“I had to come help you!” he responded, his expression incredulous. He was wearing one of the piloting undersuits from Hoth, and he held his lightsaber loosely in his hand. 

_ Stars,  _ why did he have to be so  _ noble?  _

“You're shackled,” he said, glancing at the binders on her hands. The few inches of chain strained uncomfortably for her to hold the large blaster properly. “Hold still,” he instructed, taking the blaster momentarily and turning on his lightsaber. He deftly sliced through the chains, and the cuffs fell to the floor. He handed the blaster back. 

“Thanks,” she said, rubbing her sore wrists. 

”Where's Stiles?” he asked, looking behind her and Chewie for his best friend. 

Lydia's mouth went dry. “Vader froze him in carbonite.” 

Scott's jaw dropped.  _ “What?”  _

Lydia nodded. “He gave him to that bounty hunter,  Kate Argent. Chewie and I are going to get him before Kate takes him off world. So we kind of have to hurry.” 

“Okay, you get Stiles,” Scott said, already starting to move towards the freezing chamber. “I'll go deal with Vader. You get out on the Falcon; we'll meet at the rendezvous point.”  

“No, Scott!” Lydia called to his retreating back. “He wants to freeze you too! It's a trap!” 

“I'll be fine, Lydia!” he called, disappearing around a corner, Artoo still following behind him. Lydia rolled her eyes, before turning to Chewie. 

“Come on, let's go.” 

“Look out for him, Artoo!” Threepio called to the other droid. 

They turned to continue down the hall, but instead were faced with a squad of Stormtroopers. 

“Oh, sith,” she muttered, freezing. Chewie growled a similar sentiment. 

“Get them!” the lead trooper ordered, as the squad raised their blasters. Suddenly, Lydia felt a tug on her arm, and looked over, alarmed, to see Danny. 

“This way!” he muttered, tugging her through a concealed door she hadn't noticed. She grabbed Chewie, dragging him with her, just as the Stormtroopers opened fire. The door slammed behind them and locked, leaving them in another hall, deserted except for Allison. 

Since they seemed to be out of imminent danger, Chewbacca took the opportunity to grab Danny by the neck and attempt to strangle him, growling obscenities at him as he spluttered for air. 

Lydia didn't really see a point in stopping him. She was so angry that these people had allowed Vader to walk all over them, costing Stiles his freedom and maybe his life, that she figured letting Chewie strangle him for a second was probably well deserved. She knew Chewie wouldn't  _ actually _ kill him. 

Frankly, she didn't really care if Chewie  _ did _ kill him. 

“Chew—bacca!” Danny choked out, trying to be heard over the string of insults Chewie was growling at the man. “Stop! Don't!” 

Lydia's temper flared. “Why shouldn't we kill you?” she spat. “You just sold Stiles to a bounty hunter and allowed Vader to take us prisoner,  _ again.”  _

“Because I— know where— Stiles is!” he gasped. 

Lydia raised an eyebrow at Chewie, who exchanged a glance with her. Chewie reluctantly released Danny, leaving the man gasping for breath. 

“Start talking,” Lydia commanded. 

“I'm sorry, okay?” Danny told them. “Vader was threatening me. What was I supposed to do?” 

Lydia snorted. “Oh, I don't know, maybe  _ stand up to him?”  _

“Easier said than done,” Allison responded, Danny still clutching at his throat.

“Don’t even talk,” Lydia spat. “You let your bounty hunter aunt lead Vader right to us.” 

“Don’t pretend like you know what my family is like,” Allison snapped. “I didn’t have a choice.” 

“Exactly,” Danny cut in. “Vader showed up, and we didn’t have a choice. Do you have any idea what he's like?” 

Chewie roared in outrage. Lydia's temper was running dangerously high. “Yes, actually, I do,” she spat. “Because he kept me captive for a week, tortured me endlessly, left me for dead, starved me, threatened to blow up my planet, then  _ actually _ blew up my planet, and I _ still _ didn't give him what he wanted!” 

“Well, we all can't be as strong as you, your highness,” Danny retorted. “But regardless, I know what landing platform Kate's ship is on. If we can get there before she leaves, we can get Stiles back right now.” 

“Then what are we waiting for?” Lydia said impatiently. “Let's go.” 

They followed Danny and Allison down the halls, and as much as she hated to admit it, Lydia was grateful they were there to show them the way. There were probably hundreds of docking platforms in Cloud City, and Danny wove through hallways at top speed, knowing exactly where he was going. Finally they arrived at the platform, and Danny pounded on the control panel, the door sliding open. Lydia raced out the opening ahead of everyone, skidding to a stop on the platform, her stomach dropping. 

Kate Argent's ship was already rising off the platform, soaring away with Stiles, becoming smaller and smaller against the orange watercolor clouds in the sky. 

Lydia felt like crying. 

Chewie came up behind her, placing both of his furry hands on her shoulders, mumbling comforting words in Shyriiwook to her. 

“I just...” she started, but she didn't know how to put it in words, how to explain that Stiles had become like another limb to her, and without him, she could barely function. 

It was like watching her planet explode all over again. 

So Lydia did the same thing she had done after Alderaan: compartmentalize. She could sob later. Now, she had to fulfill her promise to Stiles and get off world before the Imperials recaptured them. 

“We have to go,” she whispered, blinking back tears. “We have to get to the Falcon, and back to base, before they can get us again.” 

“You're going back to a resistance base?” Danny asked, incredulous. “After everything the Empire’s done to you, you're going to risk your life fighting against them still?” 

Lydia glared daggers at Danny. “I wouldn't expect you to understand, as you clearly care about nothing but yourself,” she spat. “But the Empire has taken  _ everything _ from me— my home, my family, my—” she broke off, still trying not to cry. “I am  _ sick _ of them taking everything,” she continued. “I'm  _ done.  _ And I'm going to stop them, whether you help us or not.” 

Danny blinked in shock at her outburst. “The Falcon's this way,” he said finally, gesturing back through the doorway. “Vader doesn't know, but I did have my crews repair the hyperdrive. I can help fly,” he said, glancing at Chewie. “It’s the least I can do.” 

“Okay,” Lydia agreed. “Lead the way.” 

Danny led them back into the building, through twisting hallways and secret passageways, until they were back in the main corridors of the city. These were filled with civilians, who gave the trio curious looks— especially the Wookiee with a disassembled protocol droid strapped to his back. 

A familiar beeping sound made Lydia whip around— R2-D2 was cruising down the hallway towards them. 

“R2-D2!” Threepio exclaimed. “Oh, it is so good to see you again!” The droid trailed behind them as they followed Danny to a paneled door that led to the landing docks. 

“It's locked,” Danny told them, fiddling with the keypad that controlled it. “And Vader must have changed the security codes. I can't get in.” 

“Great,” Lydia said, exasperated. “Can anything else today go wrong?” Evidently she was wrong, because she suddenly heard the telltale approach of Stormtrooper boots on the hard floor. 

“Oh, Chewbacca, behind you!” Threepio cried, and both Lydia and the Wookiee spin around, coming face to face with the squadron of troops in the next doorway over, maybe fifteen yards away. The civilians in the area screamed, fleeing as the 'troopers opened fire. Lydia aimed her blaster, shooting down as many as she could, Chewie following suit with his crossbow. Allison eyed the crossbow with what Lydia almost thought was jealousy, before pulling a blaster out of her holster and taking down stormtroopers with incredible precision. 

“Artoo, can't you reprogram the security codes and get us through the door?” Threepio piped up. Artoo beeped back an affirmative, gliding over to the computer panel below the holopad on the wall. 

“I have to warn the civilians,” Danny said, though Lydia was distracted by the Stormtroopers still actively trying to kill them. 

“Do whatever you have to!” she snapped. “Don't mind us, trying to not get us killed over here!” Danny ignored her sarcastic comment, instead picking up his comms unit and speaking into it. 

“Everyone, this is Danny Mahealani, Administrator of this facility,” he began, ducking blaster fire and sidestepping Artoo, who had connected to the computer panel. “I'd like to advise you that hostile Imperial troops have entered the city. I'd suggest everyone evacuate as quickly and efficiently as possible.” 

Artoo let put a victorious beep as the door in front of them slid open. “Go!” Lydia instructed, pushing her companions through, still holding the Stormtroopers at bay with her blaster. Once they were all through, even the droids, she ducked through the door, Danny pounding on a control panel as soon as she was through. The door slammed shut, the tinny echo of blaster fire ricocheting off of the door diminishing. They were on a docking platform, and ahead of them was the Millennium Falcon, in all its rundown glory. 

Lydia didn't think she'd ever been so happy to see the ship before in her life.

“Allison?” Danny asked, and it was clear he was asking whether or not she was coming. 

“I’ll come with you,” Allison volunteered, looking at Lydia. “You could use a gunner, right?” she asked Chewbacca. He growled an affirmative. Allison nodded, before lowering her voice. “I’m sorry for what my family has done to you,” she said. “I want to try to make it right.” 

“Okay,” Lydia said, causing Chewie to raise an eyebrow. She knew she should feel skeptical— this girl was related to the same person that had shot Lydia and left her to bleed out, but she could tell in her gut— Allison’s words were genuine, and she could be trusted. She looked between the droids, Chewie, and Allison, before nodding again. “Then let’s go.” 


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay again, guys, but I have an even better excuse this time-- I got to meet Dylan O'Brien last week!! and that, understandably, sort of consumed my every thought and I forgot to post. If you wanna hear the story, it's on my twitter and on my tumblr too (both are stilesssolo). 
> 
> Anyways-- only two more chapters left of this story! Then I'm probably gonna take a week in between for editing, but the ROTJ chapters are gonna be posted in twos. That one is my favorite of the three so far, so I can't wait to share it with you! 
> 
> I'd love to know what you think of this chapter! Enjoy :)

Scott leaned around a corner cautiously, careful not to make a sound. This place was crawling with Imperial Stormtroopers— Scott had swapped his lightsaber out for his blaster, as he'd gotten into a few shootouts in the passages. He reached out through the Force, feeling for Vader— and finally, he caught something stronger than just a faint trace. Vader was right down the hall, through the heavy door at the end. 

Scott walked down the hall, trying to collect himself and calm his thoughts before the imminent battle, channel the Force and shift into his wolf form. He pushed Talia's doubts of his skills far from his mind, taking a deep breath and pushing the control panel, as his vision sharpened and his senses heightened. The door slid open, and Scott stepped through. 

He was in a dark, misty room, all metal grates and pipes and tubes, control panels littering the walls, and a circular chamber sunk into the floor lying directly in the middle of the room. The flashing control panels and scant lighting fixtures gave the room a dark, ominous feel. Scott gulped, and the heavy black door behind him slid shut, the thud reverberating dully.

At the back of the room was a durasteel balcony overlooking the chamber, and at the top stood Vader. 

He didn't move, just looked at Scott, the fog rolling slowly around his booted feet and long cape. He held his lightsaber in his hand, but it wasn't turned on yet. 

“Scott Skywalker,” he said, his voice mechanical yet still menacing. Scott could hear the rasping breaths he took in between the words. 

“Darth Vader,” Scott said, crossing the room to the base of the steps to the balcony. Vader stood above him, tall and menacing, looking down on him. 

“The Force has grown stronger with you,” Vader said, almost conversationally, and Scott would have laughed at the absurdity of the situation, but his heart was pounding too fast to focus on that. “Yet I am still surprised you came here.” 

Scott bristled at his words, stepping up the stairs to the top of the balcony, a mere three meters away from him. “What did you think I was gonna do?” Scott asked, pausing. “Run?” He gripped his lightsaber firmly in his hand, turning it on with a press of a button. The blue beam shot out in front of him, illuminating the dark room, bathing everything in blue light. Vader ignited his saber as well, the red light from the beam reflecting on his shiny black helmet. 

Scott stood frozen for a minute, and then he swung. 

Vader blocked his stroke immediately, knocking his blade out of the way before counterattacking. Scott fought back determinedly, but Vader was a vicious swordsman, and despite the numerous duels Scott and Talia had had, this was the hardest lightsaber fight he had ever been in— he had had a feeling that Talia was holding back when fighting him. 

Vader was on the offensive, and while Scott could parry his blows, he hardly could switch back and get an offensive hit in. Vader was crowding him, backing him down the steps, towards the center of what Scott had now realized must be the carbonite freezing chamber. Vader briefly lowered his lightsaber, and when Scott jumped at the opportunity to get an offensive blow in, Vader reached out his hand and shoved Scott backwards with the Force. 

Scott stumbled on the edge of the freezing chamber, losing his balance and falling backwards into the pit in the floor. He heard Vader laugh above him, then saw the walls beginning to move, ready to release the carbonite— 

Scott focused all his energy on the Force, and jumped as high as he could, using the Force as a crutch, leaping high over the edge of the freezing pit and landing on the metal grated floor. Smoke billowed out of the freezing pit as the carbonite froze the empty air inside. 

Vader snarled in frustration, swiping at Scott viciously with his lightsaber. Scott ducked, desperately slicing a low-hanging pipe in the ceiling, dousing Vader in steam. He coughed violently through his mask, and Scott took the chance to leap up the stairs, down the hallway behind the balcony, and into a different room. 

The hallway here was dark, barely lit except for the flashing equipment on the walls. Scott wandered down hallways and control rooms, checking each corner nervously for a sign of Vader, or for a way out of here. Cloud City was built like a maze, and he was trapped in it with maybe the most dangerous being in the galaxy. Talia and Derek were right; he  _ wasn’t _ ready for this fight. 

Scott continued around another corner, until he seemed to meet a dead end. He was in a wide room, holopads and control panels everywhere, except for the far wall, which was a huge, glass paned window that overlooked a gigantic circular pit. The tunnel was vast and deep, and Scott realized this was probably where they brought in the gas they mined. A thin bridge stretched halfway across the gorge, a control booth extending out into the center of the mining shaft. 

Scott was still staring out the window, panic building inside him, when he heard a lightsaber activate behind him. 

He jumped around, turning his own saber on, facing Vader, who stood in the chamber's entrance. 

“You can't win this, Skywalker,” Vader said, his menacing voice rasping between his mechanical breaths. 

“That doesn't mean I can't try,” Scott spit back, charging at him and swinging his lightsaber down. Vader matched his blow, sparring him back farther and farther until they were right in front of the window. Vader's helmet glinted red and blue from the clashed connection of their two lightsabers, before Vader maneuvered Scott's blade down. Scott swung at him violently, but Vader easily sidestepped, and Scott's saber collided with the glass window. 

The single blow cracked the entire floor-to-ceiling pane, and then the window shattered, burst into a million fragments of glass that rained down on Scott and Vader. Scott instinctively raised his hands to shield himself, but was unprepared for the suction from the outside tunnel that tugged at him. Wind whipped at his body, pulling him towards the gaping hole in the window and into the cavern beyond. His footing slipped, and Scott lost the fight against the vacuum, stumbling out of the shattered window and rolling onto the bridge outside. Scott stumbled to his feet, glancing over the side of the bridge. The tunnel below him seemed to go on for a  _ parsec.  _

Vader stepped slowly through the broken window, following Scott out onto the bridge, and Scott immediately backed into the small control room, searching for a control panel that would extend the rest of the bridge. He needed a way out— he'd never channeled the Force for so long before, been shifted into his wolf form for such an expanse of time, and he was mentally and physically drained. 

There didn't seem to be a way to extend the bridge further, and too late Scott realized he was trapped. Vader was in front of him again, and Scott powered up his lightsaber again to meet Vader's blow. Vader backed him up out of the control room and onto the other side of the bridge— it ended in a tall support beam, but there was no way to the other side of the gorge. 

“You have learned much, Skywalker,” Vader said, sparring his lightsaber out of the way again. “But you have so much wasted potential. You will never truly experience the Force until you learn to control it through the dark side.” 

“What, and become a Sith wolf? No thanks,” Scott spit back. He swung out at Vader again, catching him on the arm, but Vader seemed to feel no pain, not even crying out at the injury. Instead, Vader jabbed at Scott again, forcing him even further backwards. Scott's back hit the metal grate of the guard rail behind him. 

“Join me,” Vader offered. “I can teach you the ways of the Sith. You can become more powerful than you ever imagined, than you ever could be under Talia's teachings.” 

“No way,” Scott retorted, swinging out with his lightsaber again desperately. He had nowhere else to go. 

But Vader was the better swordsman, and their lightsabers clashed, Vader swinging Scott's around and rendering it useless. Scott clutched his lightsaber helplessly, his arm extended out over the ravine. Then Vader pulled his blade up, disconnecting it from Scott's, and swung at Scott's wrist. 

Searing, tormenting pain shot up Scott's arm, and he cried out in agony. He looked over to his arm, and it ended in a charred stump. His hand was gone, cut off by Vader, and the lightsaber it had held was gone as well. 

Scott staggered back against the railing, struggling to retain consciousness, spots blossoming in front of his eyes, pain searing up his entire arm. He groaned in agony, pulling his arm into his chest, trying to cradle the charred end in his shirt.

“I can sense your pain and your hatred, Scott,” Vader continued. “You must learn to  _ use _ them, and become a Sith wolf. It is your destiny.”

“It is  _ not,”  _ Scott managed to growl through gritted teeth. The pain in his arm was just becoming worse, and he was beginning to feel sick and dizzy from exhaustion. 

“It is,” Vader insisted. “You fight like your father,” he said, almost conversationally. Scott froze, furious Vader would dare mention his father. 

“You have no right to talk about him,” Scott muttered, teeth gritted. “You helped kill him. You’re the reason he’s dead.” 

“I am,” Vader responded. “But not how you think, Scott. I didn’t want to kill him. I  _ loved _ him. He took everything away from me— the Jedi, my power—  _ you.”  _

Scott froze, unable to process what he was hearing, but Vader continued. “He left me to die, disfigured me beyond recognition, and he hid you from me. I searched for  _ years _ to find you. But Derek took you, when he left me on Mustafar.” 

Scott’s heart seemed to speed up. Was Vader saying what he thought? “It pained me to kill your father on the Death Star those years ago. But it had to be done, for me to fully embrace the power of the dark side. As you will soon.” 

“I never will,” Scott spat, voice low. 

“Then you will die,” Vader said solemnly, stepping closer to Scott, lightsaber still ignited. 

“What  _ happened _ to you?” Scott cried, desperate. He could feel the confliction rolling off Vader. Maybe he could convince him— convince him to spare Scott’s life, or—  _ something— _ he didn’t want to die; not here, not now—

“Derek said you were once a good man,” Scott continued, voice so desperate. Vader paused, and Scott thought maybe he had convinced him— Vader turned his head ever so slightly, curiously, standing still before Scott. 

“You assume too much,” Vader replied, voice calm, completely void of emotion. “I am no man. Scott, I am your  _ mother.”  _

Everything seemed to freeze. 

Time halted, and the wind stopped pulling at his clothes, and the whistling of the gusts cycling in from the bottom of the cavern quieted. The only thing that existed was Vader's mechanical breaths, and the blood pounding in Scott's head, trying to process what he had just heard. 

“No,” Scott said, denial his immediate reaction. This— this  _ monster  _ couldn’t be his blood relative. “No, you're lying. That can't be true.” 

“Search your feelings, and you'll know that it is,” Vader insisted. Scott squeezed his eyes closed, his heart banging around his chest, because as much as he wanted to deny the accusation, he somehow inherently, instinctively knew it was true. Derek was his father, and Vader— or the woman she had been before, he assumed— Vader was his mother. 

“You are powerful, Scott,” Vader continued, and bile rose in his throat, hearing Vader— his _ mother _ — refer to him by his first name. “The most powerful of us all. You can overthrow the Emperor— he's foreseen exactly that. Join me, and we can destroy him. We can rule the galaxy together, as mother and son.” 

Scott was struggling to keep consciousness, his vision getting hazy, and Vader’s emotions felt strange— it might have been because he was losing consciousness, because he felt absolutely sick, but he could have sworn he felt conflict roll off Vader, ever so subtly. Like there was some small part of her that was opposed to this. Scott didn’t dwell on it, though— as the feeling left his mind, his eyesight got more more fuzzy, everything blurring together, swimming in front of him. Even then there was no doubt in his mind. Regardless of his parentage, regardless of destiny— he would never fall to the dark side. 

“I'll never join you,” Scott spat, pulling his body up with his one good hand, his legs shaking to bear his weight as he braced himself on the railing. Scott looked down into the abyss, never ending and dark, and thought, better to die there than be dragged back to Vader's ship and forced to become a puppet and join the dark side. He scrambled over the rail, and just as he lost consciousness, just as the world became fuzzy and grey and his eyes slid closed, he fell backwards into the pit. He barely heard Vader's cry of anguish as he tumbled into the darkness, his pulse slowing as he slipped out of consciousness. 

When he came to, Scott was in a narrow tunnel. 

He looked around, searching for a way out, but before he could continue on or find an exit, the floor opened below him, and he tumbled downwards and out of the passage. He realized he must have fallen into an exhaust tunnel, because the hatch led to outside the city, pink and orange clouds decorating the sky once again. 

Scott managed to grab onto something before he fell the hundreds of kilometers to the planet's gaseous core, and he used his good hand to haul himself up onto the metal contraption hanging from the bottom of the building he'd just fallen out of. It seemed to be a weather vane or something, because it wasn't very big at all— just a fork of durasteel, really, with a long pole extending upwards and welded onto the building. Scott managed to pull himself into a sitting position on the horizontal bar, wrapping his good arm and leaning his body weight on the long middle pole. Carefully, he reached for the hatch above him, hoping he could pull himself back inside, but as soon as his hand brushed the lip of the door, it began to close shut, sealing him outside. 

Scott slumped against the metal, the pain in his hand and his heart excruciating.  _ This is how I die,  _ he thought _. Hanging onto a metal pole on the bottom of Cloud City _ . 

Desperately, he thought of Lydia, wondering where she was, if she was safe yet. He selfishly willed her to come back, but his vision was getting fuzzy again, and the brilliant clouds were becoming gray. “Lydia,” he mumbled, still clutching the pole for dear life. And for the second time that day, Scott's vision faded, and he passed out. 


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, only one more chapter left after this one! That's not terrifying (I haven't finished editing the next one still lolol)
> 
> Enjoy!

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Lydia mused, her legs tucked under her in the chair behind Chewie's. The wookiee guided the ship through the brilliant clouds of Bespin, Danny in the copilot's seat next to him. “We shouldn't leave Scott behind.” 

“Stiles told you to get off world,” Danny responded. Chewie growled that Scott had said the same thing. 

“I know,” she responded. “And I know he can handle himself. I just— have a feeling. I can't explain it.” 

She shut her mouth, glancing down at the floor. The only people she'd ever told about her feelings were Scott and Stiles, as the only likely candidates to believe her. She wasn't sure now if her judgment was being clouded by grief, but she felt something was wrong in her gut. 

They were almost clear of the planet when she heard it. 

A voice sounded in her head, and she nearly jumped in her seat. She thought maybe she was just hearing things, but it sounded again, desperately. 

_ Lydia. Please.  _

It was Scott's voice. 

“Turn the ship around,” she said, sitting up ramrod straight in her chair. “Now. Go back to the city.” 

Danny looked at her like she was insane. “That's suicidal. The city's crawling with Imperials.” 

“I don't care!” Lydia snapped. “I know where Scott is. Turn the ship around!” 

Chewbacca obliged, and Danny, silently, followed suit. They soared back towards the city, until the buildings came into view again. “Allison, you’re ready if this turns into an assault, right?” 

“Yes,” she answered over comms, from down below in the gunner’s turret. “Just let me know when to start shooting.” 

“There!” Lydia said, getting up from her seat and pointing out the front window. “Underneath that one there.” 

One of the buildings ahead had a series of metal poles— antenna, or weather instruments, or something— suspended from its underside, the only thing between the building and the gaseous surface of the planet kilometers below. And sitting perched on the poles, looking ragged and clinging on for dear life, was Scott. 

“Get as close as you can underneath,” Lydia instructed. “I'll go through the top hatch and grab him.” 

“Princess, it's too dangerous— I should—” Danny butted in, but Lydia silenced her with a withering glare. 

“I can take care of this myself,” she snapped. “I don't need your help.” She turned on her heel from the cockpit, heading for the airlock around the top hatch. 

Chewie flew the ship directly under Scott, growling into the comms when they were close enough for Lydia to go through the hatch. She climbed the ladder to the top, flinging back the heavy door, and poking her head out of the Falcon. 

Scott looked even worse up close. 

His face was gaunt and bruised, and he was covered in a sheen of sweat. He struggled to keep his eyes open, and Lydia could tell he was about to pass out. 

“Lydia,” he croaked, his voice breaking, a small smile lighting up his beat up face. 

“Come here, Scott,” she said gently, lifting her arms out to guide him into the ship. He ungracefully climbed down from the pole, following her down the ladder. Once he was back on solid ground, he swayed into her, losing consciousness briefly. As he lost his footing, his arm, which had been cradled into his chest, swung away, and Lydia almost vomited. 

His hand was  _ gone _ . 

His arm ended with a charred, bloody stump; just his wrist, really. “Scott,” she breathed, horrified and overcome with sympathy, but he lost consciousness again and slumped into her. She struggled to bear his weight— he was much bigger than her. 

“Chewie!” she hollered. “Come help! Now!” 

Chewie howled that he was coming, but Danny cut in with, “How am I supposed to fly the ship?” 

Lydia was so  _ unbelievably  _ done, so she screamed down the hall, into the cockpit, “Scott doesn't have a  _ hand! _ I think you can manage to fly the ship by yourself for  _ five kriffing minutes!”  _ She gave Chewie a grateful look when he came running to her aid. He scooped Scott up like a ragdoll, taking him back to the medical bay off the main hold. Lydia rushed after them, her hand resting on Scott's shoulder for comfort when Chewie placed him in the bunk. His eyes fluttered again, indicating he had regained consciousness. 

“I can fix him up, Chewie,” Lydia said quietly. She felt the Falcon shudder, followed by the familiar echo of gunshots. The Imperials had found them again, but Lydia’s only focus was Scott. “Thank you so much. You should go fly the ship.” He growled in agreement, retreating from the medbay. 

“How bad is it?” Scott mumbled, glancing at Lydia blearily. 

“It could be worse,” she said, looking at his wrist. “It's cauterized, so it won't bleed or get infected. But we need to get to base soon, so an actual doctor can look at you.” 

“We're going to base?” he mumbled. “How does Chewie know where the base is? That's classified.” 

She gave him a glare, but there was a small grin underneath. “Don't even pretend you didn't tell Stiles the location of the rendezvous point, in case he changed his mind.” 

Scott's face got paler. “Stiles. Where's Stiles?” 

Lydia choked down tears again, the small grin melting off her face. “Kate took him off world. I don't know where he is.” 

Scott grabbed her hand with his remaining one. “We'll find him. We will. Okay? Don't worry.” 

Lydia gave him a little grin. “Don't worry about me now, okay? Worry about you. Get rest. We'll be at the rendezvous point soon, and they'll fix you up.” 

“Okay.” He closed his eyes, gently squeezing her hand. “Thank you, Lydia. For finding me.” 

She squeezed his hand back. She'd already lost Stiles today. No way was she losing her other best friend to the Empire as well. 

***

The next few days passed in a blur. 

Scott barely remembered arriving on the Nebulon-B frigate they were on now. It was apparently serving as the medical ship at the rendezvous point, because as soon as they'd reached it, he'd been rushed on board and sedated. The following days had been a blur of medications and examinations and surgeries— but now, lying quietly in his hospital bed, his system finally free of drugs, he could think and process again. 

Darth Vader was his  _ mother. _

He still found it shocking that Vader was a woman, though between the mask and the suit— it wasn’t  _ that _ far fetched. But Scott still didn't know what hurt more, the truth of his parentage or the lies that Derek had fed him years ago— telling Scott his father was dead, when all along, his father had been Derek— he had  _ known _ his dad, had spent time with him and learned from him, and Derek had never said  _ anything.  _ Scott had always looked up to his parents,  _ revered _ these people he'd never known— he had always quietly hoped his mother and father had been proud of him, and what he was doing for the galaxy, the cause he was fighting for. Now he learned his father had been alive and had never  _ once _ come to check in on him as a kid, and his mother was the genocidal monster leading the other side of the fight. 

His wrist still burned, where his own mother had cut off his hand. 

Scott glanced down at his new hand. Sometime in the past few days they'd given him a prosthetic one, though you couldn't tell by looking at it. Synthetic skin stretched over the metal framing of it, and they had surgically connected its electrical controls to his nerves, so that he could move it just like he would a real hand. It looked exactly the same as his old hand had, and if it weren't for the coldish, tingling, absent feeling in his arm that told him something was missing, Scott probably wouldn't have even known it wasn't his own hand. 

He wondered if this one grew claws. Probably not, seeing as he hadn't told anyone in the Alliance he could actually do that.

He could just see the look on Stiles's face when he found out his best friend could grow _ claws.  _

Stars, poor Stiles. Chewie had come by a few hours ago, after Scott had woken up, to give him the update on what had happened. Stiles had offered to get Lydia to the rendezvous point on the Falcon after the tunnels of Echo Base caved in, but because of a failed hyperdrive and Imperial star destroyers, they'd spent the past month or so drifting around the Anoat system, until finally arriving at Bespin, where Stiles thought his old friend would help them. They'd been trapped by Vader, though, and Stiles had been tortured, and  _ that _ was why Lydia was in so much distress in his vision. 

Chewie had also mentioned that Stiles and Lydia had finally stopped dancing around their feelings for each other, which would explain why Lydia looked so beat up about losing Stiles. Not that she would have been okay with Stiles's kidnapping before they were together, but it made sense how wrecked she looked, knowing she'd finally trusted him with her heart. Scott knew she'd always liked him, but giving in to her feelings, only to lose him— Scott could only imagine what she was going through right now. After Alderaan, Lydia had thrown herself completely into the execution of the Battle of Yavin, but once the Death Star had been destroyed, and she had nothing more to focus on, they'd had to hospitalize her. Scott had gone to visit her in the medical wing pretty often, and it had scared him, seeing her in that bed, pale, weak, fragile, and distraught, so unlike the girl he had gotten to know in the past few days. She looked so similar now— she had curled up asleep in a big chair next to his bed, her face gaunt and pale, her hair in a simple braid down her back instead of wound up intricately. Her cheeks were sunken in, her body looked frail, and her skin was almost as white as the snow banks of Hoth. 

He knew it didn't help at all that no active plans were being made to find Stiles, though Chewie and Stiles's friend— Danny, Scott thought— had both appealed to General Morell  _ and _ Chancellor Deaton multiple times in the past few days. 

As desperately as he wanted to talk to her— to tell her about Vader, get it off his chest to _ someone _ — he also didn't want to wake her up. Scott was familiar with the very limited amount of sleep Lydia normally got, and judging from the bags under her eyes, this was probably the first time she'd slept in days. Plus, as much as his secret was clawing at his insides, scratching and ripping and demanding to be heard, he was terrified of telling Lydia. The monster that had tortured her and destroyed her planet as she watched was Scott’s mother. Would she care? Would she be scared of him, the son of the creature that haunted her nightmares? What if she never wanted to talk to him again?

Scott couldn’t bear the thought of not having Lydia in his life. And based on the way she looked now, he figured she was definitely going to need emotional support from him—even if she refused to take it. He was going to make sure they got Stiles back, and he was going to make sure she was okay. He couldn’t worry her with thoughts of his parentage  _ now _ . After everything she had done for him, that would be too selfish of him to make her share the burden of his fears.

Scott couldn't sit here and watch her waste away, he thought, looking over her pallid face, her gaunt figure. And he couldn't let his best friend stay suspended in carbonite, a prize in the collection of some slimy gangster. 

Scott missed Stiles so much it made his bones ache, like something in his soul had been pried away. Sure, Scott was friends with the other pilots and commanders and rebellion soldiers, especially Isaac and Harley and the rest of Rogue Squadron, but he and Stiles— Scott hadn't known what it was like to have a real friend until he had become friends with Stiles. It felt like they'd known each other their entire lives, the way they could always tell what the other was thinking, or the way they could easily play off of each other's strengths on missions. 

Scott had spent the past three years doing what the Rebellion had wanted him to do for the good of the galaxy. Just for once, he figured, he could do something somewhat selfish, and rescue someone for the good of himself and his friend. 

“Can I get out of bed?” Scott asked the medical droid by his bedside, who seemed to be reading the monitor displaying Scott's vitals. 

“It is advised you stay in bed, though you are fully recovered, in order—” the droid droned, but Scott had heard enough at “fully recovered.” He threw back the thin quilt covering him, slowly getting out of the bed. His legs felt a little shaky at first, but feeling soon returned to them, and he was steady on his feet. He made a beeline for the door, knowing exactly where he was going. 

A minute later, he was pounding on General Morell's door.

“Commander Skywalker,” Morell said, surprised, when she pulled her door open. Her fur lined snowsuit was gone, replaced by a cooler looking military uniform, though her dark hair fell in a silky sheet over her shoulder the same way it had on Hoth. “I'm glad to see you're feeling better. Your new hand is working well?” 

“Yes,” Scott replied shortly. “But that's not why I'm here, General.” 

She raised an eyebrow, flashing a cool smirk at him. “I presumed as much. Come in.” 

Scott followed Morell into her quarters, politely refusing a seat on her sofa. He didn't need to sit; he was here for a reason. And he intended to be heard out. 

“Why are you here, Scott?” Morell asked. “You really should still be in medical, after everything you—” 

“You need to authorize a search and rescue mission for Stiles,” he interrupted, and Morell froze. He could see her shoulders sag and hear the hushed sigh she gave, as though she'd been dreading this conversation. 

“Scott, I know he's your friend, but the Alliance simply doesn't have the credits or the resources to spare to track down and rescue someone from one of the most dangerous gangsters in the galaxy.” 

“Fine,” Scott said. “Then I'll go. You don't have to pay me; I'll go on leave.” 

Morell sighed again, more audibly this time. “It's not that easy, Scott,” she insisted. “I can't just send you off into the galaxy on a wild bantha chase to find him. He could be anywhere.” 

“Why not?” Scott protested. “We need him back. He's a good asset to the Alliance. He always does the difficult supply runs and comes back with full cargo. How many soldiers would be dead or starved if it wasn't for him?” 

“Others can do supply runs, Scott.” 

“What others?” he shot back, his voice rising. “Who else will? Do you know anyone else who will take risks like he did? Name one other pilot who would've flown half the missions he does.” 

“Chewbacca,” Morell replied easily. “We were hoping he would continue flying supply runs for us.” 

Scott laughed. “If you think he's flying any missions until he finds Stiles, you don't know him at all.” 

A knock on the door sounded, and both of them quieted. “Marin?” a voice sounded from the other side of the door. “Could I come in?” 

Morell stood, opening the door to reveal Chancellor Deaton. “Of course, Chancellor,” Morell said, allowing the leader of the Rebellion into her sitting room. “Commander Skywalker and I were just discussing the issue of supply runs—”

“With Captain Solo gone,” Deaton finished, nodding his head. Morell nodded in confirmation. 

“There's no one else who can fly like him,” Scott pushed on. “We need him back.” 

“He's not an official soldier of the Alliance,” Morell responded, sighing again. “I can't authorize a mission to rescue him because he's your friend. I'm sorry, I wish I could,” she insisted, cutting off Scott, who had opened his mouth to protest. “But we can't justify sending troops out on a dangerous mission for someone who doesn't even have an official commission.” 

“Then send Chewbacca and Danny,” Scott argued back. “They're not official Alliance members either.” 

“Nothing is stopping Chewbacca from leaving,” Deaton cut in, but Scott was sick of this argument. 

“Except the fact that they literally have no way to  _ find _ him, no plan— the Alliance has scans, intel, connections and information that could  _ help _ —” 

Both Deaton and Morell looked aggravated. “Scott, you don't understand—” 

“No, I think  _ you _ don't understand,” Scott shot back. “How about Lydia? Have either of you actually seen her since we got back? Because she's a wreck.” This silenced both of them. “She's not eating, she can barely sleep,” Scott continued, “she's going insane with worry— I thought after everything she's been through, everything she's lost and sacrificed for this Rebellion, you'd be willing to do a little more than nothing.” 

Both Deaton and Morell looked shocked at the unusual amount of venom in Scott's words— he didn't think he'd ever actually argued with any of his superiors before. But he couldn't stand the thought of Stiles suffering unfairly because the leaders were unwilling to sacrifice some resources for a man who had saved them all multiple times. Or the thought of Lydia wasting away, from heartbreak and guilt, while something could be done to save the man she loved. 

“Do you know where we'd be without Stiles?” Scott demanded. “ _ Dead _ . Because the Death Star would've blown up Yavin 4. And I'm sorry, but I can't just wait around for Kate Argent to deliver him to Jackson so that the Hutts can kill him. If I have to, I'll leave.” 

Morell looked at him. “I like Captain Solo,” she said calmly. “I want to find him. He's a good asset to the Alliance, and we do owe him our lives— some of us, multiple times.” She sighed. “But the fact of the matter is, the chief council leaders will never issue resources to non-Alliance members on a dangerous mission to save an ex-smuggler, regardless of what he's done for the Rebellion.” She glanced sideways at Deaton, the smallest smile on her face, and Scott could see exactly what she was doing. He almost laughed with joy. 

“Don't be so sure, Marin,” Deaton said, giving her an amused smile. He could clearly see what she was doing as well. 

“Danny Mahealani and Allison Argent are currently being held in intensive questioning, as they seem to have betrayed Princess Lydia and the others the moment they stepped foot onto Bespin. But I'll speak to Lydia, and we'll do what we can. We can't do much, but I'll issue them supplies and resources tomorrow.” 

Scott grinned, finally. “Thank you, Chancellor.” 

“Scott, you know...” Morell started cautiously, her small smile gone. “You know, by the time they find him, it may be too late.” 

“No,” Scott countered. “They'll find him—  _ we'll _ find him— before Jackson does anything to him. We'll get him back. I know.” 

He wasn't sure how he knew— he could feel it, though it wasn't as strong or certain as the feelings he'd had on Dagobah. But he was going to find Stiles if it was the last thing he did. 

But he was going to need help too, to pull this off. He had a promise to keep to Talia, and Scott intended to make good on it. 


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is it folks! The final chapter. I hope you enjoy it!! 
> 
> Thanks again for sticking with me through this story. ESB is my favorite movie so I had a lot of fun writing this one (also, the possibilities for Stydia content were just endless.) I'd love to know what you think of the end! 
> 
> ROTJ should... hopefully start going up next week? I think I might switch to posting on Saturdays or Sundays, just because I work late and I'm in a different time zone now. ROTJ is the longest of all, but I think I might do two chapters a week, so I don't drag it out too long :) I still have a bunch of editing to do, but it shouldn't be too long from now! 
> 
> Thank you for reading!! I'd love to know what you think and what you're looking forward to in the next one! Enjoy!! :)

Scott was looking for Lydia when he found her. 

He’d returned to the med center to find that Lydia was no longer curled up in the chair by his bed, where she had last been. He felt better now, and he already knew he needed to return to Dagobah as soon as possible, but first— he had to make sure Lydia was okay. 

This girl, though, was definitely not Lydia. 

She had dark hair that hung in long glossy curls, and she wasn’t wearing Rebellion clothes, so she wasn’t a troop he hadn’t yet met. Her eyes were fierce, a warm dark brown color, but the expression on her face was cautious, like she wasn’t exactly positive what she was doing here. 

Scott didn’t know what to say, so he just froze. 

“Hi,” the girl finally said, regarding Scott gingerly. “I’m Allison Argent.” 

Everything clicked, then—  _ Allison. _ Chewie had filled Scott in on what had happened in full when he had woken up a couple days ago. This was the girl that had been on Bespin with Danny, the one who was related to that bounty hunter that attacked them on Ord Mantell— according to Lydia, anyway. 

“Scott Skywalker,” he answered, but Allison just nodded. 

“I know. Can we talk?” 

She looked upset about something, so Scott just wordlessly nodded, following her down the hall in silence, until they reached an empty conference room, ducking inside. 

“I’m sorry about what happened to Stiles,” she said immediately, glancing at his mechanical hand. “And I’m sorry about what Vader did to you.” 

“It’s not your fault,” Scott responded automatically. Danny and Allison may have let the Imperials in, but he knew they were doing it for their greater good— to save their city. And they couldn’t have possibly known what would happen to Stiles. 

“I feel like it is,” Allison responded. “If I hadn’t been there, my aunt wouldn’t have invited the entire Imperial navy into the city.” 

“Hey,” Scott said, gentler. “It’s not because of you.” She looked up, dark eyes shining.  _ Stars,  _ she was really pretty, Scott thought, before focusing again. “Vader’s been hunting me for three years. The Empire was going to catch up with me eventually. It’s not your fault.” 

“It should be. My family’s all Imperial,” she continued. “Weapons suppliers, officers,” she swallowed, looking away. “Bounty hunters.” She glanced back at Scott, her eyes sad beneath her long lashes. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear the fog that was quickly overtaking his brain. 

“Are you?” Scott asked. 

“No.” Allison shook her head vehemently. “I tried to distance myself, with Cloud City, but now…” she trailed off. 

“Well,” Scott said, shrugging. “I mean, I don’t want to push anything on you, but— you’re here. You could be a part of this.” 

Allison raised an eyebrow at him. “Really? The Rebellion would let me join? Even with my family… ties?” 

Scott almost laughed. “Are you kidding? Half our troops are Imperial Academy defectors. As long as you’re against the Empire, you can join.” 

“I want to help,” Allison said. “I want to try to make things right. Reverse some of the damage my family’s done.” 

“This’ll be a good place for you, then,” Scott said. Allison grinned back warmly, and Scott’s mind went blank, seeing her eyes light up like that. 

“So how does this work?” Allison asked. “How do I join?” 

“Uh, there’s a form I have that you can fill out,” Scott said. “But that’s just formality. Afterwards, honestly, just go find Lydia. She basically runs this place,” Scott told her. “And tell her everything you just told me.” Allison nodded, but Scott continued. “I have to leave soon, go somewhere else. And Lydia— she’s going to need a friend.” He fumbled for his holopad, scrolling through documents he had for Morell. He’d been unofficially in charge of new recruits for the past year or so— Lydia said it was because he was good with people, while Stiles joked it was because they wanted to intimidate defectors with their all-powerful Jedi wolf right off the bat. “Here,” Scott said, pulling up the paperwork, forking the tablet over to Allison. “You can fill this out.” 

She took the tablet, biting her lip, before glancing at Scott again. 

“Do you—” she began, but Scott cut her off, realizing what she needed. Wordlessly, he pulled a pen from his pocket, handing it to her, and her grin positively lit up her face. 

“Thanks,” she said, before turning to the tablet again, using the stylus to fill in her information. 

“Here,” she said a moment later, signing the bottom and passing the tablet back. Scott took it from her, glancing over the form, before meeting her eyes again. 

“Welcome to the Rebellion.” 

***

Lydia stared out into the great expanse of stars stretching past the huge windows of their freighter, a view of almost the entire galaxy splayed out before her. It was peaceful, she thought, staring out at the entire universe, all the stars and systems and planets and moons, always in orbit, constant and steady. Watching the whole galaxy calmed her, cleared her mind, and for the first time since she'd returned from Bespin, she didn't feel so tired, like she had nothing left to give. 

Scott had made her get up with him today, change into new clothes, and eat a real meal. She was in a long white dress, very similar in style to the one Scott and Stiles had found her in on the Death Star. It was traditional Alderaanian garb, loose and flowy and comfortable, paired with soft boots. It was a relief to leave behind the snow boots and fur lined jackets, though she did long for the casual clothing she'd padded around the Falcon on en route to Bespin. 

She'd opted for pulling her hair up in a simple bun today, perched high on top of her head. It kept it out of the way, though still looked elegant and classy. She knew she was putting on a façade, pretending she was fine when she  _ definitely _ wasn't by changing her clothes and doing her hair, but these people needed to see her as a leader, and leaders were never not okay. Stiles had told her— fight like hell and end this war. If she was going to do that, she needed her troops to believe in her and in their cause. She needed her armor again. 

Quiet footsteps echoed behind her, and Lydia turned around to see Scott approaching. Her shoulders immediately sagged in relief— there was no pretending around Scott. She didn't need to put on the tough girl act for him, because he already knew how tough she was, even in moments of hopelessness like this. He had changed, put on a soft white tunic and matching pants. He looked better— the bruises were healing, his face had more color in it, and his deep brown eyes had that shine back in them. She couldn't tell the difference between his real hand and his prosthetic hand, other than the way he held his wrist above his new hand like it ached. He gave her a soft smile in greeting, stopping right by her side. 

“They're leaving any minute,” he said quietly, glancing at her. She nodded her head. 

“I know. I just said goodbye to Chewie.” 

“How mad is he about having to bring Danny with him?” 

Lydia chuckled. “He's okay with it. He's still really mad about Bespin, obviously, but they used to be friends, and I think he knows Danny didn't have a choice, really.” 

“Thank you for talking to Deaton and Morell,” she said quietly, glancing at her friend. “They wouldn't have authorized the mission if you hadn't.”

“You don't have to thank me,” he assured her. “We're saving Stiles, end of story.” He glanced at her quickly. “And I know how hard this is for you.” 

She sighed, glancing up at Scott. Her façade might fool anyone else, but Scott could see right through her. 

“He told me he loved me,” she whispered, side glancing at Scott. His eyes bugged out, as big as saucers, and a grin slowly spread over his face. 

“Chewie didn't tell me  _ that,”  _ he said, still grinning. “I mean, I already knew, but… he actually  _ told _ you?” 

“I almost didn’t say it back,” she whispered. 

“But you _ did?”  _ he whispered back, his face a mixture of awe and shock, eyebrows slightly raised, and he looked like the ground had shifted below him or something. 

“I did. I  _ do _ love him. I just—” she started, looking away from Scott. “I couldn't risk— he's been waiting around for me to finally realize what I feel and come to grips with my demons for  _ three years,  _ and—” She looked back at Scott, into his warm brown eyes, and she saw the joy morph into sadness. He knew where she was going. “I had to tell him, because what if I never see him—” Scott cut her off, pulling her into his chest and wrapping his arms around her. She took a deep, shaky breath, trying to calm herself. 

“We're gonna get him back, Lydia,” Scott said, and there wasn't a bit of doubt in his voice. “If it's the last thing I do, I'm gonna find him for you.”

“Don't go risking your life all the time just for me,” she told him, craning her neck to meet his eyes. Her lips crept up in a tiny smile. “I can fight my own battles.” 

He looked down at her, and his eyes were so full of concern for her, it astounded Lydia. She didn't realize until that moment how tired she sounded. 

“I know you can,” he assured her. “But you don't always have to.” 

Stars, she knew about Scott and his hero complex, but what had she ever done to deserve a friend like him? She blinked back tears at his compassion, her façade crumbling around her feet. She hugged him harder, pressing her face into his clean tunic. He squeezed her back, comforting her. 

She quieted, thinking about this whole rescue mission. “I should be going,” she said in hushed tones, pulling away from Scott, standing next to him and staring out the window again. 

Scott looked right at her. “Lydia, don't feel guilty for not leaving with them. You have another job here, and Stiles wouldn't want you feeling obligated to abandon the Rebellion for him.” 

“I know,” she replied shakily. “But still.” 

“Chewie and Danny have a lead,” he told her. “Danny was able to hack into some holonetworks, and he has connections, from his smuggling days. And Allison talked to you, right? Anything she can do from here, she’s going to. She has old ties with some Imperials we can hopefully get info from.” He sighed, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Once they actually find him, then we go help.” 

“I know,” she replied again. They'd formulated a plan, and decided it'd be too conspicuous to have a princess travelling with them, especially when she was a wanted Rebellion leader. Once they actually located him, Lydia was going on personal leave (which she'd already cleared with Morell) to help actually rescue him. Scott would meet up with them too, but first, he had to figure out his powers more. 

“When are you leaving for Dagobah?” she asked quietly, eyes still on the galaxy beyond the window. She would never say anything, but she was terrified to be without either Scott or Stiles for the first time in three years. They'd been a constant in her life ever since the Death Star, and to be alone again... She was fairly certain Scott had guilted Morell into looking after her, making sure she was eating and sleeping and healthy. 

“Tomorrow, I think,” he responded, not looking at her either. “Even after a month, I have so much more to learn.” 

She nodded her head, and he continued. “I hope maybe Talia can help. She might know how I can use the Force to find him.” 

His words made her think of him on Bespin, how she'd known to go back for him; known exactly where he was. 

“Scott,” she said quietly, glancing up at him. He met her eyes attentively.

“I know my powers aren't like yours,” she started. “I don't know how they work. I don't know how I found you on Bespin.” She swallowed, then continued. “But... maybe if I stop fighting them, I can use them. Control them.” She glanced at him again. “Maybe I can find where Stiles is. With enough time for someone like you to do something.” 

He stared right at her, the look in his eyes intense and hopeful. “You get me the time, I swear on the stars I'll do something about it,” he said. She gave him a small, grateful smile, and he seized her hand, squeezing it. She felt like crying still, but for the first time, not out of despair— simply for the love, and kindness, and loyalty shining in Scott's eyes. 

“Look,” he said, turning away from her and towards the window. The Falcon was soaring out of the docking bay, into the stars beyond, before disappearing, travelling at the speed of light to the other side of the galaxy.

“Don't worry, Lydia,” he said softly. “We're gonna find him.” 

For once, she didn't give in to her nagging doubts, to the feelings of despair and hopelessness, the whispers in her head that she'd never see Stiles again. Because she could feel that she would. She knew he was alive, the same as she had on Hoth in that snowstorm. He was alive, and she would see him again. It was a certainty in her gut. 

So she just squeezed Scott's hand, turning back to the window, and watched the galaxy go on.


End file.
